




% 



# 



J 



I 












• 1 


t 


» » 

- • 

I • * 



4 


II 











( I 




■J.y' ■ ■ r?. 'yr 

'V.., i ; ■' ’ ' 0 ,\' 

\v 



A . 




• i'.'Vt ''i''l(.> 

•4. I ' 


■Jl' ^7? '. 


• .’ 


•tL'V' ■• ' ’-tli A. 


• t 


M 


> » 


l^.> 


./■" 




i K V ^ A • 






I I , I ' ' * '.' 


'i. ' ’js 

V.. 


'■j'/;- ' '-^A 'i* •■ 

■ ■■ 

r “ 





> < 


. • f/i 

iV'i''- ■ 

*. 4' ' V'AL !?% • ' " ^ 

^..__i^ 4 ;. . ", 

' ' ' I . v;,* 




‘Is;;.. 


I^"'' 


,VJ>I (I 











LIFE 


SHUT-IN VALLEY 

AND OTHER 

PACIFIC COAST TALES. 


BY 


CLARA SPALDING BROWN. 





COPYRIGHT, 1895. 

THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO., 

Franklin, O. 

I S A % c. ( 

I ^ S w 




«> 


f- ’I 

n ^ f 





CONTENTS: 


Eife at Shut-in Valley . 5 

A Strike for Eight Hours 23 

Hearts Are Trumps 37 

A Mid-day Call at Miner’s Flat 53 

The Mysterious Miss Aldeman .... 65 

The Schooi-nia’am of Mineral Hill . . 91 

The Trials of Jonathan Mollify 123 

Reuben Hall’s Christmas 135 

Mrs. Brighton’s Burglar 148 

Through Night to Light 155 

That Ugly Man 165 

The Awakening 170 


To the Memory of 
My Brothers, 

Two of Mature^ s Mohlemen, 


LIFE AT SHUT-IN VALLEY. 


S HUT-IN VALLEY lay bathed in sunlight — the 
bright, intense sunlight of California, that burns 
and crisps but does not wilt. Down the white, wind- 
ing road a cloud of dust betokened the swift gallop 
of a stray horseman — some hunter, probably, or a 
visitor from the town, twenty-five miles away, to one 
of the ranches still farther up the mountains. No 
further sign of life was manifest, save in the door- 
way of a low, weather-beaten cabin at the extreme 
lower end of the valley, where a young woman in a 
plain calico gown stood, with her deep blue eyes 
wearily scanning the landscape. Not even the rude 
and uninviting setting of this living picture could 
detract from its plainly apparent claim to more than 
ordinary interest. It was a graceful figure and a high- 
bred face — delicate, sensitive, full of intelligence and 
refinement, of sadness, too, as its owner slowly turned 
away and disappeared from sight. 

“ What a life ! ” Marian Curtis was saying in her 
heart. “ How can I endure it ? ” 

Five years ago this solitary woman had been a 

( 5 ) 


— 6 — 


successful teacher in a bustling New Ecgland town. 
A town not too large for sociability and genuine 
enjoyment, but far removed from the dullness and 
utter isolation of her present life. She had been well 
known, respected, admired, had possessed the means 
to gratify, in moderation, her aesthetic tastes and to 
preserve an innate fastidiousness in regard to apparel 
and surroundings. When Harvey Curtis, a prepos- 
sessing young man, from what the Coolville people 
denominated “ the West ” (albeit the territory in this 
case was the State of Indiana), came to visit his sis- 
ter in her Yankee home, and without much lo.‘5s of 
time proceeded to court the pretty teacher who 
chanced to be boarding in the house, grumblings sup- 
pressed but heartfelt were heard among the eligible 
masculines native to the town. Miss Hunter had no 
fortune at her command, and even “ worked for a liv- 
ing,” yet more than one appreciative resident had 
been known to declare her “ a prize for any man 
and it certainly was Miss Hunter’s own fault that she 
had not, ere this, exchanged her school of forty 
roguish, restless pupils for one very different in 
requirements. 

She abdicated at last, in favor of this black- 
browed, broad-shouldered man of thirty, whose strong 
will and passionate devotion swept away every objec- 
tion And for a year after their marriage she was 


— 7 — 


happy. Harvey was fond and proud of his gentle 
young wife, his means were amply sufficient for their 
wants, and the current of life flowed smoothly. If 
Marian at times noticed little things that jarred upon 
her finer nature, was now and then sensible of an 
indescribable disappointment, the momentary un- 
pleasantness was so speedily followed by a contrast- 
ing impression that she gave no deep thought to the 
matter, but dismissed the subject with the reflection 
that men were not like women, and doubtless she had 
expected more than she had a right to enjoy. 

Then Harvey took the California fever. At first 
Marian could not bear to hear him talk about it. She 
was one of those who can not lightly break home ties, 
and her heart fainted within her when she contem- 
plated what her situation would be, far out on that 
strange Pacific Coast, where no dear familiar features, 
save her husband’s, could ever meet her eye, and the 
great distance and expense of the journey across the 
continent would forbid visits to the “ old folks at 
home.” But Harvey had the fever hard and strong. 
His mind was really set upon going, and the winter 
being an unusually severe and changeable one, Marian, 
never very robust, began to cough. 

“ That settles it, Marian,” declared Harvey; “you 
7nust go. I can’t let consumption get hold of you.” 
Even Marian’s relatives thought it best, and the up- 


— 8 


shot of it all was that just as the June roses were 
bursting into bloom, and the bright-breasted robins 
were twittering gaily in the cherry trees, she bade a 
sorrowful good-bye to the old haunts she loved so 
well and turned her face as bravely as might be 
toward the setting sun. “ I have my husband,” she 
thought, trying to dispel the dark cloud over her 
spirits; ” I can be happy with him anywhere. Cali- 
fornia must be a lovely place; we shall soon make 
friends, and all will be well.” 

In due time the tedious, though interesting 
journey was accomplished, and after a brief survey of 
San Francisco the couple took passage on the Ancon 
for San Diego. Here Harvey had an acquaintance, 
and the climate being recommended as just the thing 
for his wife, here he proposed to establish a home in 
some way to be determined upon after inspection of 
the place. He found the town smaller than he had 
anticipated, with no promising openings for business, 
San Diego being a sufferer at that time from the 
unkept promises of the Texas & Pacific Railway 
Company. Several months passed in looking over 
the ground, and finally Harvey determined to buy a 
ranch — the best thing he could do, people said. 
Plant it in wheat and he could have an income the 
very first year, besides raising his own garden stuff, 
having plenty of fresh eggs and milk and butter, 


— 9 — 


even honey, as most of the ranchers in the mountains 
had at least a few stands of bees Marian was soon 
induced to give her consent. She was not fond of 
farm life, as she knew it in the East, and she was 
averse to removing so far away from any settlement ; 
but there would be compensations which she hoped 
would make life enjoyable in spite of all that she 
disliked. The novelty of ranch life in this new 
country was interesting, the climate was delightful 
and the scenery grand. 

So the bargain was struck, and the Curtises 
moved out to their new home in season to prepare 
the ground for the winter seeding. Harvey had 
visited the ranch several times, but Marian had never 
accompanied him. It was a long, rough road, up 
narrow canons, down steep mountain grades and 
across fertile little valleys occupied by one or two 
small li .uses, to the spot which had taken Harvey’s 
fancy; and, as Marian had not been feeling at all 
well, she had contented herself with listening atten- 
tively to her husband’s eulogies of the place, and had 
decided that if he found it satisfactory, with his 
superior knowledge of what was requisite in a 
ranch, she would like it very well. There was a 
house to live in, she knew that, for the place had 
been occupied by a man with quite a large family, 
and there would be nothing to do but go right on 


lO — 


with the management of the ranch — so much easier 
than to start on an unimproved place. It was near 
nightfall when their tired horses ascended the rough 
grade that led up to Shut-in-Valley, and Marian 
understood the name with a new significance, as she 
beheld the narrow opening between two great masses 
of rock and earth that formed the only means of 
access to the valley from the direction of San Diego ; 
and later realized that there was only one way out — at 
the other end — a still more tortuous and precipitous 
path than the one toward town, leading only to some 
lonely valleys on a higher level. She never got over 
the impression of prison walls that those rugged, 
inclosing mountains gave her. They were grand in 
their outlines, beautiful often in their changing lights 
and shadows, but they confined a restless soul, 
imposed insurmountable barriers between her and 
what her heart held dear. 

She could scarcely believe her eyes when they 
stopped before a rude, unpainted cabin beside the 
road, a large chimney of stones standing conspicu- 
ously at one end, and Harvey laughingly told her 
that this was “home.” In her wildest flights of 
fancy she had never dreamed of occupying a structure 
like that — why, it was no better than a lumberman’s 
shanty in the Maine pine woods, or than her father’s 
woodshed — not half so good as the barns of her own 


I — 


country. Harvey was a caused by her crest-fallen 
countenance. “ lyooks rather rough, don’t it, Marie? 
But what do we care — we’ll enj oy ranching j ust the same, 
and after the first harvest we’ll have a new house.” 

Harvey did “ enjoy ranching; ” he developed more 
and more a taste for out-door pursuits, was interested 
heart and soul in the improvement and progress of 
the place, and often declared that he didn’t know 
what'true enjoyment was until he came to California 
— he wouldn’t go back East for all the farms in the 
country. But strangely enough, all the improve- 
ments were confined to the fields, stock, agricultural 
implements, etc. The first harvest and yet another, 
passed successfully by ; the yield being good on these 
upper levels, even when nearly a failure in drier 
localities, and the quality of the wheat being so good 
that the crop was readily engaged at a fair price by 
the managers of the flour mill in San Diego. Yet 
there was no “new house.” It took Harvey but a 
few days to adapt himself to circumstances, as men 
can so much more readily than women, and he soon 
forgot that any changes were desirable. Alas ! that 
I must say it, but Marian had a grievance much worse 
than this; he also forgot, gradually but surely, to 
give his wife those demonstrations of affection always 
needed by a sensitive, sympathetic-natured woman, 
and doubly called for in a situation like Marian’s. 


He was happy and content, and he torgot that 
he had taken his wife away from all her people to 
associations that were repugnant. He was engrossed 
in his ranch work, and he forgot that his wife was 
wearing her heart out in loneliness and lack of any- 
thing to satisfy her soul hunger. It suited him to find 
the unsightly cabin as neat as soap and water could 
make it, and well-cooked meals upon the long table 
that did duty for master and mistress, Mexican and 
Indian “ hands ” alike ; to see Marian moving about 
with her graceful step, and face flushed with the 
warm air of the kitchen ; and he forgot that “ man’s 
love is of his life a thing apart, ’tis woman’s w^hole 
existence.” 

And so he starved her. Yes, I say he starved 
her ! If he had withheld the food necessary to sustain 
her drooping body, would not. judge and jury have 
solemnly asserted his guilt in not providing suste- 
nance ? What is the body compared to that mysterious 
marvel, that breath of life, termed the soul? And if 
all that feeds and nourishes this finest, most essential 
part of humanity is taken away, what ensues but 
starvation ? In the great recording book, kept by the 
angels, is marked down case after case of man’s 
injustice and shortcoming on points that never come 
before a mortal tribunal. 

Marian Curtis was not a feeble-minded woman 


— 13 — 


nor one inclined to fretful complaints. One by one 
she gave up her cherished hopes and stoutly held on 
to what was left, until she could no longer avoid see- 
ing that the glamour of sentiment existing for a brief 
period after their union had entirely passed away 
from her husband. She tried not to doubt his affection 
for her, but something was lacking — something so 
very vital that each day was a renewed disappoint- 
ment, and her unhappiness constantly increased. 
She did not let him go without a struggle. Longing 
for a tender caress, anxious to show her depth of love, 
she often laid her arm about his neck, or paused to 
give him a gentle kiss, only to be pained afresh by the 
carelessness with which her endearments were 
received. There was no more heart talk between 
them, no quick responsiveness of the soul. Harvey 
was seldom cross with her, though inconsiderate fre- 
quently. The trouble was that she was simply a 
housekeeper . 

What had she to atone for her deprivations ? The 
nearest postofiice or church was at San Diego ; there 
were no neighbors within a mile on either hand. The 
first one toward town conducted an apiary, and was a 
crusty old bachelor, who seldom showed his face in 
Shut-in-Valley. The nearest one in the other direction 
was a soured, ignorant man, whose wife had left him, 
and who spent his time pattering over a small ranch 


in the valley above. There was nothing fresh to 
read, except an occasional package of papers well out 
of date by the time they were obtained from the post- 
office. 

She could not ride, for the horses were always 
busy in the fields, hauling wood from the mountain 
side, or on the road to town with a heavy load. She 
soon tired of walking up and down the one white road 
of the valley, bordered on either side by waving wheat 
and barley ; and she missed the beautiful clumps of 
live-oak trees that had been felled to give place to the 
monotonous stretch of grain. The original owner of 
the ranch had apparently taken considerable pains to 
build the shelter that served him for a home, as remote 
as possible from any shade except that cast upon it by 
the overhanging heights when the sun was still high 
in the heavens, where it remained with its chilling 
influence until a new day was far advanced. Marian 
did not object to the cold nights, but welcomed the 
creeping shadow as a relief from the intensity of the 
raid-day heat which fell unobstructed upon the frail 
cabin. The first time that she yielded to a passionate 
desire to scale what she grew to consider her “ prison 
walls,” and see what lay beyond, she was so terror- 
stricken by the sight of a great rattlesnake lying 
across her path that she never ventured again. And 
so her life became hemmed in until the exasperated 


— 15 — 


spirit beat exhaustingly against the earthly frame 
that confined it, and, unnoticed by her busy husband, 
Marian failed daily. Not in the way that had been 
apprehended when she left the East, for the health- 
giving atmosphere of California had long ago cured 
the incipient cough, but in a puzzling, almost imper- 
ceptible manner that would have occasioned anxiety 
on the part of a close observer. 

One day Harvey and his crew of swarthy-hued 
“hands “ came flocking into the long, low kitchen and 
found no supper ready. Astonished search in every 
nook of the limited quarters revealed no wife. She 
couldn’t have “ gone a-gaddin’,” like housewives in 
thickly settled communities, and it wasn’t like her to 
remain away from her post for any cause. Harvey 
went out to the road and shouted at the top of his 
lungs. Nothing but an echo answered him. 

Beginning to be alarmed, he sent the men out in 
various directions to look for Marian, taking himself 
the winding road that led down the canon to Simms’ 
apiary; here were trees and, at this season, bright 
flowers in the canon, and possibly Marian had gone 
thither to gather a bouquet, and had met with some 
mishap. He had not walked far when he heard some 
one shouting for him to return. “ Oh, she has come,’’ 
he said to himself. “ What a simpleton I was to get 
frightened about nothing.” 


— i6 — 


“ Sacaton has found her, down by the pool,” said 
his up-valley neighbor, “ old Miggs,” who was helping 
Curtis harvest his wheat. 

‘Wh-what’s the matter?” stammered the now 
thoroughly aroused husband, striding post haste along 
the diminutive stream that flowed at the rear of the 
cabin, to where it fell half a dozen feet and widened 
into a shallow basin fringed with willows. It was the 
one spot in all the neighborhood that reminded Marian 
of New England, and she often sat dreamily watching 
the water as it trickled over the mossy stones, and lis- 
tened to its music while it flowed onward to the gentle 
Sweet Water, far below Shut-in-Valley, thence to be 
carried to the mighty Pacific. 

Sacaton — one of the half-breeds — had sometimes 
seen her sitting there, and at once sought the pool, to 
find a white-faced woman lying prone upon the ground, 
as oblivious to what was passing around her as the 
dead. Harvey Curtis did not know but that she was 
dead when he caught sight of that inanimate face, 
and noted the needle-work at her feet. No one could 
look at that drawn countenance and fancy its owner 
sleeping. What could it be ? She had made no com- 
plaints at noon, hadn’t said much, anyway, Harvey 
remembered vaguely, but seemed about as usual. 
“ As usual ! ” how many heart-breaks are covered by 
that stereotyped phrase ! 


— 17 — 


“ My God ! ” he cried, ere he fairly reached his 
wife, “old Miggs ” scrambling after and the half- 
breeds gathering around in respectful solicitude. “ Do 
you suppose a rattler has stiuck her?” Harvey 
raised the light figure and gazed widly into the pallid 
face. “No,” asserted Miggs; “that ain’t no snake 
bite. She’d be all swoll’d up an’ blacker’n a thunder 
cloud. She’s swouuded.” 

It was such a swoon as Harvey had never seen 
before. He worked long and vainly to restore con- 
sciousness after he laid Marian upon her bed, while 
Sacaton urged the best horse in the corral to its fleet- 
est speed, commissioned to summon the first physi- 
cian that could be induced to go so far from San 
Diego. 

When at last her eyelids fluttered and opened for 
an instant, Harvey’s heart went out in a cry of 
“ Marian, darling ! ” But there was no gleam of 
responding love in the large eyes, the nerveless hand 
lay passively in his clasp. A sigh of utter weariness, 
and again the lids were closed, only the feeble, irregu- 
lar breath testifying that some faint consciousness 
remained. She did not rouse much during the night. 
At daybreak a physician arrived, guided along the 
dangerous grades by the faithful Sacaton. He 
remained with his patient until after noon, and talked 
scientifically about “ nervous prostration,” “ collapse 


— i8 


of the vital forces,” etc., expressing his belief that 
she would “pull through” with careful nursing; it 
wasn’t medicine she needed so much as rest and ten- 
der care. He would send out Miss , the best 

nurse in the town and a creditable nurse for any town, 
and she’d build Mrs. Curtis right up. “ So chirk up, 
man,” the doctor cried cheerfully, mounting his tall, 
white horse. “She’s down flat, sure enough, but 
’tisn’t as though she was wild with fever or gone with 
some organic disease There’s been too much strain 
upon her, and she’s given away, that’s all.” 

Harvey did not seem to understand the doctor’s 
reasoning. He had not been aware of any particular 
strain — thought, on the whole, Marian had an easier 
time of it than he did. To be sure, she wasn’t weaned 
from New England yet and she was lonesome some- 
times, but that didn’t seem sufficient to account for 
such a crisis. He was destined to comprehend in 
some measure what his wife had passed through, in 
the next two weeks ; for, although the nurse came at 
once and took up her duties with the skill of a master 
hand, Harvey was too anxious about this new, strange 
being, that was a very wraith of the old Marian, to 
stay away from her long, and in her weakness and but 
partial sensibility words dropped from her lips that 
had never before found utterance. She moaned about 
the “ old times,” the gray-haired father and mother, 


— 19 — 


the sweet-scented forests ard murmuring streams of 
loved “ Yankee-land.” She hopelessly referred to their 
life in Shut-in-Valley and said it was not worth the 
struggle and that she did not want to live. 

One day Harvey sat beside her, thinking very 
intently of her broken sentences, and questioning if 
he had really been blind to what should have been 
his dearest interest. Marian suddenly opened her 
eyes and as suddenly spoke out, more clearly and 
forcibly than since her illness began. “ Why did you 
stop loving me? ” she queried. ^ 

Harvey stared at her in amazement. “ My dear, 
what a strange question ! I love you with all my 
heart.’’ 

“No you don’t,” Marian persisted querulously; 
“ if you did you’d show it. I’m tired of being a 
machine, to plod along here without any heart or 
soul. I want to be petted sometimes and cared for, 
and treated as if nobody could take m}^ place. I 
didn’t think this^OiS what you married me for.” She 
could say no more ; her momentary strength was 
gone, and she lay sobbing childishly, heedless of his 
attempts to comfort her, his earnest assertion that no 
one ever could take her place. 

The nurse came in and ordered him away, but 
he took with him a host of disturbing thoughts, and 
for several days went around in silence, until he 


— 20 — 


acknowledged himself guilty of much that his wife 
had alleged. Brought face to face with the possibility 
of losing her, he realized how valueless everything else 
in life was, after all, compared with her, and resolved 
that he would begin at once to do all that lay in his 
power to obliterate the impressions of the past years 
Dormant emotions now rose triumphant over all that 
had previously actuated him, and in his courting 
days he had not felt more anxious to win Marian’s 
favor than now that she la}^ a wreck of her former 
self in that little cabin at Shut-in-Valley. It was 
difficult at first to convince her of his affection and 
penitence for the past. She did not appear to hear 
half that he said, and laughed scornfully when he 
did gain her attention. But as she improved in mind 
and body, she noticed that a strong arm was ready to 
support her, a kind voice soothed her when she was 
restless, and soft kisses frequently fell upon her brow. 
Gradually a sense of happiness, of satisfaction, stole 
into her heart. Her eyes grew bright, her cheeks 
flushed faintly as she gazed upon her husband’s face 
and saw the light of love there. The incubus that 
had rested upon her rolled away and dissolved like a 
vapor. It was worth while to be sick, she thought, 
just to lie there and be made much of, like an over- 
grown baby. 

This was several years ago. San Diego is a 


21 


thriving place now, and growing rapidly. The coun- 
try is settled up with intelligent farmers. Many a 
beautiful home is nestled amid fragrant orange trees 
and surrounded by a wealth of exquisite flowers. 
Shut-in-Valley has not changed in appearance much, 
on the whole, yet there have been many improve- 
ments. The old cabin has disappeared. Shaded by 
graceful pepper trees, stands a pretty cottage with 
broad verandas covered with clinging vines and a 
profusion of roses. All around are fruit trees of manj^ 
varieties. Within are dainty rooms, a small piano, 
and a goodly number of books and periodicals. Out 
in the .stable a sturdy Indian pony is munching 
his barley, preparatory to taking his mistress on 
a long jaunt over the hills. A veritable little cay- 
euse is he— trustworthy on the steepest trails and 
fond of following Marian about when allowed to go 
loose. Marian is not unhappy now, even on this 
secluded ranch. She does not expect to live there 
always, and in many ways she and Harvey contrive 
to bring diversion and pleasure into their routine of 
existence. Though Harvey is not so well constituted 
as some men, perhaps, to discern the inmost recesses 
of her nature, he is true and honest and loving, and 
finds it so pleasant to demonstrate his affection for 
Marian’s pleasure that he could no longer be happy 
himself without .so doing. 


— 22 — 


“ After all, life in Shut in-Valley is real enjoy- 
able,” said Marian, the other day, as they galloped 
down the road to the cottage and a bevy of excited 
dogs rushed to greet them. “ I just love these grand 
old mountains now, and when father and mother come 
out next winter they’ll hardly know me, I’ve grown 
so well and — yes, so brown, ‘ a-ranching it.’ Won’t 
it be nice if we can induce them to stay?” 



A STRIKE FOR EIGHT HOURS. 


^^ThE carpenters struck for eight hours to-night, 
1 Martha. There’ll be no more work done till 
the builders come to our terms.” 

Mrs. Dayton looked across the table at her hus- 
band, with a dubious expression on her face. 

“ Do you think they will give in ? I am afraid 
you will be out of work some time,” 

“ I don’t care if I am ; eight hours are enough for 
anybody to work, and it’s time the people who have 
to do the labor of this world showed some spunk and 
rebelled against being tied down to one eternal grind.” 

“ But you will lose three dollars a day, and we 
don’t want to run in debt. Mouths must be fed, you 
know, just the same, and the children’s shoes — ” 

“ There you go, borrowing trouble right and left ! 
What’s the use of trying to cross a bridge before you 
come to it ? I guess there will be a way provided.” 

Mrs. Dayton said no more, but she looked anx- 
ious as she cleared away the tea things, put the chil- 
dren to bed, and finally sat down to a big basket of 
mending, just as her husband’s snores began to pene- 
(23) 


— 24 — 


trate the sitting-room from the adjoining bedroom. 
She was very tired, but she could not think of going 
to bed before ii o’clock. There was always just so 
much to be done, and only one pair of hands to do 
it all. 

Eight hours a day’s work ! Mrs. Dayton smiled 
grimly. What would become of the work in that 
house if she “ rebelled against being tied down to one 
eternal grind ?” Six children, the eldest but twelve 
years of age, the youngest an ailing baby whom she 
sometimes feared did not receive due attention, with 
so many other cares devolving upon her from early 
morning until late at night ; and Mrs. Dayton was not 
robust — never had been. She could not “turnoff” 
her work as some women do, but she did the best she 
could, without complaining. 

“ If Silas has made up his mind not to go back 
to work, nothing I can say will change it,” she mused. 
“There’s one good thing about it— if he is going to 
be at home, he can help me in a number of ways.” 

Comforted a little by this reflection, she plied her 
needle with renewed vigor, and at last crept wearily 
into bed, partially arousing her husband, who mut- 
tered, testily, “Don’t talk to me! I tell you, eight 
hours are enough,” then turned over and started a 
new series of snores. 

“ Do you mind holding baby a few minutes, 


25 - 


Silas, while I skim the milk?” queried Mrs. Dayton, 
after breakfast the next morning. 

Silas had settled himself into his chair with the 
air of a man who has all day before him and owns no 
man for a master. 

“ Hold baby ! ” he ejaculated. “ Do you think 
I’m here to do women’s work? I guess when I get a 
day off I’m going to enjoy it.” 

” He’s sick with a tooth coming through, or I 
shouldn’t have asked it. I really don’t know how I 
can attend to my work and care for him as I ought. 
There, there, poor little dear, don’t cry.” 

” Well, if this is the sort of racket I’ve got to lis- 
ten to. I’ll clear out. Great Scott ! just hear him 
yell ! I thought I was going to have a little peace in 
my own house. You needn’t wait dinner for me— I 
don’t know when I’ll get back.” 

The irate man hurriedly got out his fishing tackle 
and strode off to the nearest wharf. The Daytons 
lived on the outskirts of a large seaport, had their own 
little cottage, a cow and chickens, and were altogether 
very pleasantly situated. Mr. Dayton was a good 
husband in most respects, and would have stared in 
amazement if any one had suggested that he was not 
always perfectly kind to his wife. He was thought- 
less, like many other men who do not stop to consider 
how manifold the duties of a housekeeper are. He 


26 — 


would have scouted the notion that his wife worked 
harder than he did, and the idea of lightening her 
burdens in any way had never occurred to him. 

Mrs. Dayton had trained her children to be use- 
ful to some extent, but the oldest was a boy, and his 
ten-year-old sister could only render some assistance 
in dressing the little ones mornings, and do a few 
chores after school at night. The week passed by, and 
Mrs. Dayton was disappointed in her hope of deriv- 
ing any benefit from her husband’s idleness. If she 
asked him to repair something about the house he 
would do it to-morrow, but to-morrow came and it 
was not done. When churning-time came he was not 
to be found. He never seemed to notice when she 
lifted heavy kettles of water or emptied the wash-tubs, 
and she strained her arms as usual putting up the 
clothes-line. Seeing how disinclined he was to have 
anything to do with the domestic affairs, she ceased 
asking for his help. 

Silas Dayton was enjoying his vacation. He was 
a good workman and he meant to make the most of 
his leisure ; so he read and he smoked, took naps in 
the hammock and indulged in long gossips over the 
fence with neighbor Jones, a professional man whose 
office hours were short. Did you ever notice how 
fond the average man is of gossip ? He likes to have 
his fling about the chattering of women, but at heart 


— 27 — 


he relishes a bit of news. When Almira Smith 
becomes engaged to be married, or her father sells his 
pasture lot, or Jim Downs gets a clerkship in a store, 
he is always glad to hear about it, and^two men can 
beat any two women of my acquaintance in holding]a 
protracted sidewalk meeting. 

Martha Dayton lay awake nights and thought. 
Saturday morning she arose with an unaccustomed 
look of determination on her face. In 'a way that 
ordinarily^mild women sometimes have, she had sud- 
denly become firm as a rock in her resolution to adopt 
a new course of conduct. “ I’ll begin at 6 o’clock,” 
she said to herself The work was accomplished 
magically that day ; every step was made to count, 
every minute was used to advantage. By 3 o’clock 
the house was in order and a generous baking adorned 
the pantry shelves. 

Half an hour later Mr. Dayton came in and found 
his wife sitting in the parlor, with her new gingham 
dress on, reading the morning paper, while the baby 
crowed on a rug at her feet. 

“ Expecting company?” he inquired. 

“ No, I’m just resting.” 

It was something new^for Martha Dayton to be 
” resting ” in the daytime, and it had been years since 
she had ” fixed up ” like that, except on the rare 
occasions when she went out somewhere. 


— 28 — 


When the supper was served, Mr. Dayton missed 
some of the usual accessories of the meal. No hot 
biscuit, no baked potatoes or nicely broiled chops — 
nothing warm but the tea, which had been made on 
the oil stove. 

“How’s this?” he grumbled. “Ain’t you cut- 
ting us short to-night with your cold victuals ? I like 
a hot supper.” 

“ Oh, I’ve struck,” replied Mrs. Dayton in a 
serio-comic tone. “ I’ve come to your conclusion 
that eight hours are enough for any one to work, and 
that it is time to rebel against an eternal grind. It 
will necessitate .some changes, but since you are 
firmly convinced of the right of the matter, of course 
you will be willing to put up with the inconvenience 
of it, as I have to with the loss of your wages on 
account of the same principle.” That was a long 
speech for Martha Dayton to make. Silas glared at 
her with open mouth. She looked smiling and at 
ease, not at all as if she were bereft of her senses. It 
wasn’t like her to joke, but she must be “ funning ” 
now. Trying to be smart, eh? He didn’t quite 
like it. 

“What rigmarole are you getting off now?” he 
said rather roughly. “If you look a lazy streak and 
didn’t want to cook a good supper, why don’t you 
come right out and say so, not throw up that eight- 


— 29 


hour business to me? Man’s work isn’t woman’s 
work. You just attend to your cooking and baby- 
tending, and I’ll see to my carpentering.” 

” You think I don’t mean it, Silas, but I do. My 
work is just as hard as yours, and more wearing to 
the nerves. Hereafter I shall consider eight hours of 
constant labor a day’s work, and outside of that I 
shall do only what can not be avoided. A woman 
needs time for rest and recreation just as much as a 
man does, and the way I have been living it has been 
impossible to be anything more than a mere house- 
keeping machine. I should like to improve my mind 
a little.” 

“You ain’t turning woman suffragist, I hope. 
I’ll bet that Miss Skinner has been talking to you.” 
Miss Skinner was a somewhat noted platform speaker 
who lived near the Daytons. 

“ No one has been talking to me, and this has 
nothing to do with suffrage. It seems that when you 
said ‘ people ’ you meant ‘ men,’ giving no thought to 
women ; but I fail to see why they should not be 
included in the labor question.” 

Mrs. Dayton had not been a self-assertive woman, 
and her husband gave but little thought to her unex- 
pected outbreak. He attributed it to a “ cantanker- 
ous spell ” which would not last long. A strike of 
housekeepers ! Refusal to work more than eight 


30 — 


hours a day ! It was absurd, ridiculous. I am not 
sure but Silas Dayton went farther in his thoughts 
and pronounced it lazy; for what did woman’s work 
amount to, anyhow, compared to the hard tussles of 
a man with the world ? 

The subject was not mentioned the next morn- 
ing, when they partook of the usual Sunday break- 
fast of beans and brown bread. Mr. Dayton, who 
was not in the habit of attending church, started out 
for a stroll about town. Mrs. Dayton very seldom 
went, as she generally had a baby too small to leave. 
To please Silas, it was her custom to prepare the 
most bountiful meal of the week for Sunday after- 
noon, and the day of rest often left her so fatigued 
that it was an effort to begin anew on Monday”morn- 
ing. If any one called, she was not fit to receive 
them in her working garb and with her heated face. 

It was nearly three o’clock when Silas returned. 
“Who has he brought home now?” wondered the 
little woman as she heard strange voices. Silas often 
brought people home with him to the'Sunday dinner ; 
he was hospitable, and he knew that there would be 
an abundance of good things to eat. 

“ I ran across my old friend Jabez Hunter and 
his wife,’' he explained, as Martha went into the front 
hall. “ Haven’t seen them for years. They’ve got a 
farm only twenty miles from here, it seems, and 


— 31 " 


they’ve been to town time and again, and didn’t 
know we were living here.” 

Martha was shaking hands with a stout, fresh- 
faced man and a large, comfortable-looking woman, 
and Jabez was declaring that he knew Si. in a minute* 
and he was mighty glad to see Si’s wife and the 
babies. 

“ Si. haint changed hardly any,” he continued, 
“ but you ain’t lookin’ well. Kind o’ dragged out, 
ain’t ye ? Better come out to the farm ; we’ll fat 
you up.” 

Silas was secretly pleased to see that his wife 
was neatly dressed, and seemed less “put out” than 
usual by company. Jabez Hunter had been one of 
his best friends in the old days, and now that Jabez 
had the air of being well used by the world, Silas was 
anxious to have his wife, children and home appear 
in a favorable light. 

Soon Mrs. Dayton called them into the dining- 
room where the long table was spread, and the child- 
ren already seated in their places, the baby industri- 
ously drumming with a spoon on his waiter. With 
pride, Silas named his boys and girls, who were 
embarrassed just enough to make their behavior 
unobtrusive. 

“ By George, Si, you’re a rich man with such a 
family as this, ’’.exclaimed Jabez. “Don’t it do your 


_ 32 — 


heart good to look arouud and see ’em ? I tell Lucy 
sometimes its pretty lonesome for us out on that big 
farm where youngsters would have such a good time. 
Wouldn’t you like to go fishing in my trout brook, 
young man ? ” addressing Jack, the oldest boy. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with a broad grin. 
By this time all were settled, and Silas’ face wore a 
look of blank astonishment and dismay. Cold meat, 
cold bread, berries, cake and a cold custard pudding. 

“ My wife, it seems, has made a change in the 
bill of fare,” he finally said ill-humoredly ; “ we are 
in the habit of having a good Sunday dinner.” 

“ I don’t see anything the matter with this,” 
declared Mrs. Hunter. 

“ Silas has forgotten that I’ve struck,” said Mrs. 
Dayton. “ I’ve adopted the eight hour plan, and no 
unnecessary work on Sunday. Men don’t work Sun- 
days — why should women when they can avoid it ? ” 

Silas’ face was red with suppressed wrath. A 
pretty impression of things his friends would get ! 

Jabez Hunter gazed at Mrs. Dayton admiringly. 
Given half a chance, she would be a pretty woman. 

“ What’s that? ” he chuckled. “ Struck? Come 
now, that’s good. Why shouldn’t women strike as 
well as men? I’m sure they have more to put up 
with. I hain’t never let my wife grub all day long 
and half the night as lots of ’em do. Have I, Lucy ? 


— 33 — 

And Sundays we don’t do nothin’ at our house that 
we can git out of.” 

“ Half the time we make our dinner on bread and 
milk Sundays,” said Mrs. Hunter, smilingly. “ I’m 
bound to have one day in the week when I ain’t tied 
to the kitchen.” 

“ Your wife must have a pile of work to do. Si, 
with all these youngsters ; it’s enough to make her 
look peaked. Lucy finds chores enough on the farm, 
but we hain’t no children and I help her considerable. 
I s’pose you’re handy in the house when you’re out 
o’ work, ain’t ye. Si ? ” 

Silas’ face was a study. Mr. Hunter continued, 
as he took another slice of cold lamb : 

“ You’d laugh, I expect, to see me with one of 
Lucy’s big aprons on wipin’ dishes or turnin’ the 
wringer. I s’pose I do cut a figger, but it reminds 
me of the time when I used to ketch Lucy unawares 
a makin’ pies or somethin’ before we was married, 
an’ she used to git my face all flour behind the pan- 
try door.” 

‘‘Law, now, Jabez, ain’t you ashamed?” Mrs. 
Hunter’s face was rosy. 

“ I like to think of them old courtin’ days, don’t 
you, Si?” 

Tears sprang into Mrs. Dayton’s eyes; she did 
not look at her husband. He mumbled an inarticu- 


— 34 — 


late answer. The children were delighted with the 
turn of the conversation ; such a jolly fellow had not 
visited them for many a day. 

“ I made up my mind when I got married that 
my wife wa’n’t goin’ to be drove to death. I’d got 
her an’ I meant to take care of her an’ keep her. 
Seems ’s though some men took partic’lar pains to git 
their wives out o’ the way so they could git another. 
I ain’t anxious for No. 2. Lucy don’t look ’s though 
she was fadin’ away, does she? Tipped the scales at 
one hundred an’ ninety-five pounds (stop yer nudgin’, 
Lucy) the other day.” 

Jabez beamed affectionately on his discomfited 
spouse, the children tittered and Mrs. Dayton 
ventured to smile across the table at her unusually 
silent husband. 

“Now, Mrs. Dayton, I don’t b’lieve weigh 
much mor’n a hundred pounds. Looks to me like 
you was pretty near tired out an’ needed a change. 
Bundle her up, Si, with her babies, an’ send her out 
to the farm. You can git along without her a spell 
better’n you can spare her for good. I don’t b’lieve 
you want a No. 2 to mother all these youngsters.” 

Silas found his tongue and a chance to use it at 
last, and the conversation drifted into other channels. 
Sooner than any of them desired, the time came 
when the Hunters were obliged to leave, and the 


— 35 — 


Daytons were left with the feeling that a warm, invig- 
orating rift of sunshine had been let into their lives. 
Evidently Silas had “ food for thought ” that evening, 
and it was he who lay awake that night, and his wife 
who slept. When she was ready to begin her washing 
the next morning, she found her tubs filled with 
water and the clothes-line ready for use. Volumes 
could not have told her more than those two simple 
acts did. In the afternoon, as she sat making aprons 
for the children, Silas said: “If you want to go out 
to the farm, Martha, I think likely I can get Mandy 
Johnson to come and keep house.” 

“ But the children ? ” 

“You can take the baby and Freddy and Stella, 
and the rest will get along all right going to school 
here.” So it was arranged. 

When Mrs. Dayton returned, almost a new 
woman, she found that a compromise had been 
effected and Silas was working. She did not attempt 
to keep up her own strike, but life was henceforward 
made easier for her. She hiied help on extra hard 
occasions, many little things that had been expected 
of her were omitted, and Silas, now that his eyes 
were opened, found that he could save his wife from 
backaches and help her to get a leisure hour in ways 
that detracted not a whit from his manliness. The 
time came when he said to her: “ That was a cute 


— 36 — 


idea of yours, Martha— that strike for eight hours. I 
was mad at the time, but when I saw how much 
better Jabez Hunter treated his wife than I did you, 
it made me feel that maybe I hadn’t been doing right ; 
I guess I think as much of you as he does of Lucy, 
and I mean to give you as good a show as I can.” 

“ I am satisfied,” said Martha, looking lovingly 
at her husband; “ but I was not before my strike. I 
was really getting vicious. We are lots happier now, 
aren’t we ? ” 

“ I only wish all strikes might end as well as 
yours did.” 


HEARTS ARK TRUMPS. 


M rs. BELKNAP had led a nomadic life since the 
death of her husband, flitting from place to 
place as fancy suggested. 

Lonely ? Yes, but Mrs. Belknap was accustomed 
to loneliness. She had been lonely as a child in her 
cheerless country home, and she had been still more 
lonely as a wife when long miles intervened between 
her and all the associations of early years, and an 
impassable gulf separated her husband’s soul from 
her own. 

With the large ideality of youth, she had invested 
the man of her choice with qualities he did not pos- 
sess ; moreover, she was one of those who do not grow 
into a realization of their capabilities and needs until 
late in life. Every year took her farther away from 
her husband and made the void in her life greater. 
The finer, better part of nature — that which was 
dearest and most essential to her — was entirely with- 
out companionship, in fact was .scarcely recognized by 
him who .should have been most appreciative of it. 
Can woman endure a worse solitude than this ? She 
(37) 


- 38 - 


tried to bear her lot heroically, and no one knew what 
bitter waters she passed through ; but she felt that the 
blessedness of life had never touched her. The hardest 
of all lessons to learn was resignation ; the utmost 
fortitude was required for her to lace the prospect of 
never living as God knew that she could live. 

There was more than this to make her unhappy; 
her husband’s habits would have justified a divorce, 
but she shrank from taking legal proceedings against 
him, and continued on her troubled way until Provi- 
dence settled the matter by suddenly terminating the 
earthly career of Mr. Belknap. 

The first winter thereafter she spent in Florida, 
the second found her in California. Early in Febru- 
ary she took up her quarters in Eos Angeles, where 
already roses in countless variety were blooming, and 
long rows of stately callas defied frosts as they up- 
turned their white chalices to the sunny skies. 

For some weeks Alice Belknap felt the charm of 
this genial climate as she walked beneath the over- 
hanging pepper trees, their graceful, ferny branches 
relieved by clusters of scarlet berries, and noted the 
beauty all around her. It was a pleasure to breathe 
the pure, soft air, and night brought a refreshing 
coolness provocative to slumber. Then gradually the 
old spirit of unrest came upon her — the old revolt 
against her destiny. The flower-decked cottage homes. 


— 39 — 


more than the pretentious mansions, accentuated her 
own solitariness. She was lonely still. 

The only remedy for this condition of mind she 
had found to be change of scene. “ I will go to Santa 
Monica,” she resolved one day ; “ the sea will suit my 
mood.” She forthwith ensconced herself at the Hotel 
Arcadia, upon the very edge of the bluff, overlooking 
a grand curve of shore and sweep of sandy beach. 
The hotel was fairly filled with guests, who made the 
house lively with hops and other diversions. Mrs. 
Belknap might have joined the merry-makers, for she 
had at her command the “ open sesame ” to social cir- 
cles — a generous bank account ; but of this fact no one 
was aware. The greater part of her life had been a 
struggle with insufficient means, and she knew well 
how one’s best energies are cramped by poverty, how 
the needs of one’s soul are trampled upon by stern 
necessity, yet she never could become a worshipper 
of Mammon. Society had but little attraction for her ; 
the intellectual life offered pleasure beyond the ken 
of devotees of fashion. Literature, art, music — 
these were things worth living for — if one were not 
always alone ! 

It had been a fancy of the widow, as she trav- 
eled from place to place, to keep her riches in the 
background, and win what courtesy and esteem she 
could solely by her personality. She therefore dressed 


-40 — 


plainly and dispensed with luxuries, but she did not 
forget to quietly assist many an unfortunate person 
who came in her way. The guests of the Arcadia 
paid but little attention to the new-comer, though 
there w^as some puzzling over her on the part of a 
few gentlemen who observed the poise of her manner 
and the inscrutable look in her eyes. 

One breezy afternoon Mrs. Belknap was return- 
ing from a stroll up the beach, dividing her atten- 
tion between the incoming tide, which narrowly 
escaped wetting her feet more than once, and Mrs. 
Custer’s last book. She loved to read of that happy 
wedded life upon the plains — a perfect illustration of 
the ease with which true love overcomes obstacles 
and endures hardship for the sake of remaining near 
the beloved object. “ How rich that faithful little 
woman was,” she thought; “how blest with such a 
strong, cheery, brave, tender and affectionate nature 
beside her ! What did it matter how or where they 
lived?” 

Her eyes grew moist with sympathy for the 
dauntless woman’s unspeakable loss. A gust of 
wind fluttered the leaves of her book and something 
white flew past her eyes. Looking up quickly, she 
saw slips of paper scattered over the sand and one 
lying in the edge of the water. In another moment 
it would be carried out by the receding wave. In a 


— 41 — 


nook formed by a bend of the bluff, a man was rising 
to his feet with some difficulty, it appeared, as he 
leaned upon a stout cane — evidently the scribbler, 
for more slips lay about him and chagrin was upon 
his face. Mrs. Belknap deftly secured the soaked 
paper and had gathered up most of the others by the 
time the stranger reached her. 

“ Yours? ” she queried, brightly. 

“ Yes ; a thousand times obliged,” he replied, as 
he took them from her. ” They are of no great 
value, still I should be sorry to lose them.” 

” Wind and wave are treacherous here as else- 
where,” she responded lightly. 

“Yet we must admit that there is a great dif- 
ference between the sturdy blasts of northern 
climes and the soft zephyrs of this semi-tropic 
region ; between the white crests of the Atlantic 
and the peaceful azure of the Pacific. Fancy, now, 
sojourning at any of the Eastern beaches in this 
month of March.” 

“ It would be idyllic, surely. There is another 
difference between the two great oceans that is in 
favor of the stormier one. The Atlantic is covered 
with life. Anywhere along the shore you may see 
sails of different descriptions, furnishing unlimited 
material for conjecture as to their freight of human- 
ity. This calm expanse is unutterably lonely; the 


— 42 — 


effect is depressing, unless one can lOvSe one’s self in 
contemplation of its grandeur.” 

“ It gives me inspiration.” 

“You are a writer — a poet, perhaps? Pardon 
me,” as she noted a shade of embarrassment upon the 
countenance before her. 

“ Scarcely a writer — certainly not a poet. I 
have tried to cultivate the faculty of expression since 
I was put hors de combats 

Mrs. Belknap looked her interest. The gentle- 
man was evidently an invalid; he was rather slightly 
built, hardly medium height, and his face was pale. 
A broad, intellectual brow, and clear, gray eyes 
redeemed his face from absolute plainness and gave 
it force. One felt that this man was stronger men- 
tally and morally than he was physically. 

“Allow me,” he added, handing her a card. 
“ May I know to whom I am indebted for the rescue 
of my manuscript?” 

Smilingly, Mrs. Belknap took a card from the 
embroidered bag hanging on her arm. 

Lifting his hat, the stranger bowed, and stood 
looking after her as she returned to the hotel. 

So this man and woman met, in that mysterious 
entangling of paths that is the fate of mankind, for 
good or for ill, who shall at the time determine? 
Many interviews followed. John Manning, like Mrs. 


— 43 -- 


Belknap, was unconventional, and a stranger in a 
strange land. When he found his new acquaintance 
sitting apart on the veranda after dinner that even- 
ing, he walked directly over to her and engaged her 
in conversation. Mrs. Belknap learned that he was 
a lawyer by profession, but a severe rheumatic fever 
had left him with troubles that bade fair to become 
chronic. For a year he had been in quest of health. 
He^ had tried the hot springs of the South and the 
dry air of Colorado and New Mexico. If the famous 
climate of California did not work a cure, he sup- 
posed he could only resign himself to the inevitable. 

“It is not easy,” he added, with a bitter smile, 
“for a naturally active man to sit and do nothing, 
evSpecially if he has not previously made his fortune. 
For those reasons, I have turned my attention to lit- 
erature, but I have not got beyond a little newspaper 
and magazine work yet.” 

It was an unusual thing for John Manning to 
speak of himself and his circumstances. The influence 
of a sympathetic presence is great, and he had an idea 
that this lady was no better endowed with worldly 
goods than himself. Something that Mrs Belknap 
said confirmed this idea. She gave him the impres- 
sion that she was spending a brief vacation by the 
sea, and that soon she must take up the active duties 
of life. 


— 44 


“ A working- woman,” he thought ; “ I know it by 
her quiet, self-respecting independence.” 

Somehow there was a bond of understanding 
between them from that night. In the days that fol- 
lowed they passed hours in reading or talking together. 
Evening found them upon the spacious veranda, 
where the moonlight poured down its mellow rays, 
watching the gay promenaders upon the beach and 
the golden pathway upon the shimmering water. 
Mrs. Belknap’s avoidance of the lively crowd was 
another proof that she did not belong to that sphere 
of life. 

“ But how vastly superior she is,” John Manning 
thought, “ to those thoughtless followers after fashion ! 
A woman with a history ! It is written upon her face. 
Can widowhood alone be the cause of that repressed 
look, that yearning expression that sometimes comes 
into her eyes? I think not.” 

One day they were speaking about the recent 
marriage of two well-known people — a man of fifty- 
four and a girl of seventeen. “ That is the way with 
you bachelors,” Mrs. Belknap said, laughingly ; “ when 
you capitulate, it is most invariably to a young girl. 
I do not wonder at it, for what is so sweet as a fresh, 
young creature just budding into womanhood?” 

“A mature woman’s perfected soul!” replied 
John Manning, reverently. “Nothing can surpass it. 


— 45 


The freshness of youth is a pretty thing, but it fades 
away, while the charm that is acquired by the disci- 
pline of experience increases with the advance of 
time. A woman of spirituality may defy age — she 
will never become uninteresting.” 

“ That would account for the affection some 
times felt by men for women much older than them, 
selves, as that of Mr. Cross for George Eliot. Still 
it is plain, in the majority of cases, that a passe 
woman can not hold her own against youth and 
beauty, no matter how refined or accomplished she 
may be.” 

“ Such women as I have in mind never become 
passed 

The conversation veered to John’s literary work. 
Mrs. Belknap rejoiced to learn that one of the New 
York dailies requested regular letters, and a leading 
magazine had complimented his last article. “ This 
gives me bread and butter,” he said, ” and heart to 
work ; but I shall not be satisfied until I write a book ; 
I have one outlined now, but I can not elaborate it as 
I am now situated. My income must not stop, and 
you know that publishing is expensive business.” 

” I should like to see your book,” Mrs. Belknap 
said gently; “perhaps I shall some day.” 

Nearly four weeks had passed when she announced 
that she must return to Eos Angeles. A blank look 


- 46 - 


came into John Manning’s face ; he had forgotten that 
the present state of things could not last indefinitely. 
“ Must you go ? ” 

“ I am wanted there,” she replied, not adding 
that some legal business required her attention. 

How unjust it seemed for this woman to be sub- 
servient to people no doubt on a far lower plane of 
being than herself ! How gladly he would save her, 
if he could, from the rude knocks of a work-a-day 
world ! More than ever before he realized that money 
and labor should be more equally and appropriately 
distributed. He had thought Bellamy’s theories 
chimerical, but just now if he could avail himself of 
a generous credit card from the government he would 
— what ? 

Could he, even then, ask that self-contained, 
noble-hearted woman to wed such a sorry specimen 
of manhood as he was ? A creature who poked along 
like an octogenarian, and groaned if his toe struck a 
cobblestone? It would be utter selfishness. 

“We never prize health until we lose it,” he 
sighed ; “ I worked hard to build up a good practice, 
and then, presto ! the scene changed and doctors, 
drugs and depleted finances became the order of the 
day. If I had my health and profession back again, 
do you think I would let that woman go out of my 
life without an effort to keep her?” This fiercely, as 


— 47 — 


to an unseen interlocutor. Each discerned a change 
in the other during the few days that followed. John 
Manning wanted to speak, but dared not; Mrs. Bel- 
knap was distant and silent. 

“ This must not be a final good-bye,” exclaimed 
John, as the train was ready to depart. “ You will let 
me call on you in Eos Angeles?” 

“ I shall be very glad to see you,” she replied, 
giving him her address 

The annual flower fete at Eos Angeles took place 
in the last week in April — a scene out of fairyland. 
In the evening, when electric lights cast their brilliant 
rays upon the rainbow-hued exhibits, the sparkling 
diamonds and rich dress of the fashionable throng 
that fills the building, the sight is memorable. 

Alice Belknap stood in the broad lower gallery, 
looking down upon it, when she saw her seaside 
friend approaching her. As their eyes met, he smiled. 
There was a cheery, even eager, look upon his face 
that had not been there when she left him at Santa 
Monica three weeks before. 

‘‘You are better,” she said, as they shook hands. 

‘‘ Considerably better,” he assented ; “it is the 
first real gain I have noticed. I have been at the 
Arrowhead hot springs, and found the mud baths 
really beneficial. But you — are you not well?” 

‘‘I am in my usual health.” 


- 48 - 


“ You look pale; you must be weary standing. 
I’ve been hunting for you in the crowd an hour ; 
your landlady told me you were here.” 

“ I am tired; I think I will go now.” 

John did not ask her permission, but escorted her 
from the building, which was near her boarding-place. 

“ Don’t go home yet,” he pleaded. “ The night 
is mild, and there are plenty of seats in this pretty 
little park. I want to talk with you.” 

Nothing was said, however, for some minutes. 
Mrs. Belknap leaned her head against the iron chair- 
back and gazed at the tropical shrubs so clearly out- 
lined in the electric light. John’s eyes were on her face. 

He spoke abruptly. ” Alice, I love you ! I have 
not had the least encouragement from you. I am not 
a strong man or a wealthy one, but I love you ! I have 
hopes now that I shall regain my health. Tell me, 
dear, could I make you any happier?” 

Alice’s hands trembled, her eyelids quivered ; she 
did not look up. In a moment she said : 

” You are both strong and wealthy. Strong in 
those characteristics that make a man worthy of his 
manhood ; wealthy in those attributes of heart that 
win the love of woman. Yes, John, you could make 
me happier.” 

Her eyes met his now, and they were filled with 
the light of a great joy. 


— 49 


The next morning she said to him : “ It is I who 
am selfish in allowing you to marry me instead of a 
bright young girl. I am very nearly as old as you.” 

“ I would not have you one day younger. I love 
you for being exactly what you are. Consider well 
the risk that you run. What if I should become una- 
ble to work? I should never forgive myself for link- 
ing 3^our lot with mine.” 

“ Do you not believe that your wife would deem 
it a privilege to work for you if it should be neces- 
sary ?” 

” I believe that you are constituted to be God’s 
best gift to man — a true helpmeet.” 

“You will recover your health, I feel sure of it, 
and you will write your book. I shall be your prime 
minister in that undertaking. Your hieroglyphics 
(you do write wretchedly, John, that comes of being 
a lawyer) will be deciphered and copied by me. I 
shall read your proof and make myself indispensable 
generally. No protests ; it will be a delight to me, 
and there will be the pleasure of refuting Daudet’s 
assertion that intellectual men are hampered by mar- 
riage.” 

“ I wonder you don’t write a book yourself, such 
a clever woman as you are.” 

“I’d much rather have my husband write one. I 
shall be very proud of you, John.” 


— 50 — 


“ Little flatterer ! ” 

In a month they were married; there was no 
reason for delay. By mutual desire the honeymoon 
was spent at the Arcadia. Alice Manning’s expres- 
sive face blossomed into beauty under the vivifying 
influence of love, and her husband counted himself 
blessed among men. Again they sat watching the 
beach and the ocean by moonlight ; this time Alice 
held John’s firm, white hand in hers and caressed it 
as they talked. 

She had many pretty little ways that were a per- 
petual surprise and pleasure to her husband. Depths 
of tenderness constantly revealed themselves, and 
John sometimes fancied that in her love was an ele- 
ment of gratitude which sought for every aveniie of 
expression. 

“ Now the tide of European travel is at its 
height,” Alice remarked. “Have you ever thought 
you would like a trip abroad? ” 

“ I have hoped to be able to go some day.” 

“ It has always been a dream of mine to go— with 
pleasant company. Suppose we telegraph to New 
York for passage. I am sure the change would be 
good for you. The famous German baths may work 
wonders. Then, wouldn’t you enjoy a quiet stay by 
the charming Swiss lakes, and, possibly, a cruise on 
the Mediterranean ? ” 


— 51 — 


Was she joking? John looked at his wife in 
amazement. 

“No, my head is not turned by happiness. I 
assure you that such a journey is quite within the 
possibilities. You have only to express your 
preference.” 

John was speechless. “ My love, was it very 
wrong of me to allow you to think me a poor 
woman? ” 

“ Then you are rich ! ” John’s face grew white, 
and he tried to draw his hand away ; Alice clung to it 
tightly. 

“ At first, it pleased me to keep you in ignorance 
of my financial independence ; afterward, I dared not 
tell you, for I knew your pride. You must not sup- 
pose that I feared my money would be a temptation 
to you. If you had known of it — ” 

“ I should not have asked you to marry me.” 

“ That absolves me, does it not? ” 

John’s face was still set with pride. “ I wish it 
were not so,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “ You 
give me everything. I cannot make a fair return.” 

“ Say not so, John ! I have never told you of my 
past life. If you knew all, you would realize that 
your love and protecting tenderness are priceless to 
me. Does he who feeds a starving person, give 
nothing? Does the shepherd who takes in his arms 


— 52 — 


a chilled and weary lamb and warms and soothes it, 
do nothing? My husband, I never lived until now. 
You have led me out of the horrible wilderness of 
solitude into the realms of peace and joy. God bless 
you for it ! ” 

Alice’s intense, passionate words thrilled John 
Manning through and through. The glimpse they 
gave of her unhappy past deepened his tenderness 
for her. “ My poor darling,” he murmured, “ you 
know what the world will say.” 

“ What do we care for the world ? ” Tears stood 
in her eyes now. “ In the game of life, hearts should 
lead, and if they are trumps, they are sure to win. 
Took at me, John. Are you sorry that you married 
me? ” 

Soul met soul in the gaze that followed, and the 
question was answered without words. 


A MID-DAY CALL. AT MINER’S FLAT. 


I T wfs a broiling day in mid-summer at Miner’s Flat. 

The scorching rays of an Arizona sun mercilessly 
sought out every nook and corner of the camp, unob- 
structed by shade of any kind. Alice Marriner 
thought of the hills and dells, the leafy nooks and 
rippling waters of her old home in New England as 
she paused for a moment in the kitchen door, and 
looked out upon the broad and sterile plain where not 
a single tree relieved the monotony of the landscape. 
It was a dreary, uninviting spot for a home, and the 
quick tears sprang to Alice’s eyes as a wave of long- 
ing for something different — something better — than 
this in life swept over her. But they were speedily 
brushed away, and the girl turned back to her work 
in the sweltering little kitchen. “ How foolish of 
me !” she thought. “ Haven’t I one of the very best 
brothers in the world? And doesn’t he toil from 
morning till night to give me a home, and deny him- 
self many a pleasure that he could enjoy but for me ? 
What right have I to complain because we don’t live 
in the pleasantest place in the world and have all the 
(53) 


— 54 — 


luxuries of a millionaire? Alice Marriner, thank 
your lucky stars that things are no worse, and hurry 
up with your dinner. Henry will be here in thirty- 
five minutes as hungry as a bear.” 

So, with deft, quick movements, Alice set the 
potatoes over the fire, gave the savory-smelling roast 
in the oven a good basting and was “ creaming ” the 
butter and sugar for the pudding sauce, when tap, tap, 
came a knock at the front door. 

“My goodness! Who’s that, I wonder?” ex- 
claimed Alice, hastily substituting a clean white apron 
for her floury kitchen one, and shutting the stove 
dampers that nothing might burn in her absence. 
She crossed the little sitting-room, which also served 
as dining-room and as Henry’s bed-room — for this was 
the land of cot-beds and blankets — and opened the 
outer door. 

“ Te-he-he !” giggled Miss Laura — commonly and 
appropriately called Lolly — Fayette. “ Was passing 
by and thought I ’d call,” with a glance that was cal- 
culated to be bewitching at her companion, a tall, 
broad-shouldered young fellow in a white suit and 
Panama hat. 

“ I’ m glad to see you,” said Alice, politely. 
“ Walk in, please. Take this rocker, Lolly ; and Mr. 
Harwood, allow me to relieve you of your hat.” 

“ Distressingly warm, isn’t it?” languished Miss 


— 55 — 


Ivolly, plying her fan with as much vigor as she could 
muster. “ I never should have ventured out in such 
a sun, only Velma Sykes is going away on the noon 
stage, and I was positively obliged to see her about 
some things she is going to get for me in San Fran- 
cisco. I met Mr. Harwood, and he was good enough 
to walk along with me and carry my umbrella. So I 
told him it was a good time to run in and see you.” 

A good time for them, perhaps, but not for Alice, 
who felt that her face was as red as a lobster with the 
heat of the cook stove, who had doubts about the 
smoothness of her hair, and knew that Henry could 
not wait many minutes for his dinner. But Alice was 
a real lady, and entertained her callers as gracefully 
as if their visit were not malapropos. It was not per- 
fectly easy to do this, for Miss Fayette seemed bent 
upon showing up the discomforts of Alice’s life, and 
Mr. Harwood had never been in the house before. 
He had not been in Miner’s Flat many weeks, and 
Alice’s acquaintance with him was but slight. 

“ Mercy me ! how thick the flies are,” said Laura, 
dabbing at one which was endeavoring to get a taste 
of the “ Magnolia Balm ” upon her cheek. “ I should 
think they’d eat you up.” 

“ There are a good many this summer,” replied 
Alice, “ and we are late about getting our screen 
doors on. Brother is so tired when he gets home at 


- 56 - 


night. Next week he’ll be on the night shift and will 
have some leisure through the day.” 

“ Oh, does he put them on ? We always hire such 
jobs done, and then the season isn’t half over before 
you’re fixed up.” Alice flushed, but checked the 
answer that rose to her lips, reflecting that Laura did 
not realize how impertinent her language was — it was 
her way. But she wished Laura would not say such 
things before Mr. Harwood He had given Laura a 
strange look when she made her last speech, and now 
sat gazing respectfully but critically at Alice. 

“ How did you enjoy the festival, Miss Marriner ?” 
he inquired. 

“Very well, indeed. Everyone was so .social, 
and I so seldom go out in the evening.” 

“ I don’t see what you shut yourself up so for,” 
interrupted Laura. “You’re cooking and scrubbing 
all day, and I should think you ’d want some recrea- 
tion when night comes. You take in sewing, too, 
don’t you ?” with an inflection that plainly evinced 
her estimate of such menial employment. 

“ Yes, sometimes,” replied Alice, quietly, “as I 
have a good sewing machine, and am anxious to help 
all I can.” 

“ Well, if ’twas me I shouldn’t distress myself as 
long as my brother could support me. It’s too hot 
weather to work. I should think you’d roast in a 


— 57 — 


little bit of a house like this,” glancing through the 
half-open door at the kitchen fire. 

“Is not it as hot for my brother as for me?” 
asked Alice, striving to remain composed. “ And he 
is not strong. Indeed, that is why we came to this 
Southern country— the doctor said he must go away 
from the cold winters. Henry is just as good to me 
as he can be, and he is all that I have. I could not 
rest easy one minute if I did not make his burden as 
light as possible.” 

Alice’s head was erect now, and her eyes shone 
with a steady, loving light. 

Wallace Harwood looked at her admiringly. 
Laura Fayette saw it— it was the very thing she was 
working against. She had brought Wallace in here 
on purpose, knowing that he had been very favorably 
impressed with the gentle, modest girl whom he had 
met in company a few times, and determined to 
counteract this impression if she could do so, by 
showing up the poverty of the Marriners, and Alice’s 
“ drudgery ” at home. 

Mr. Wallace Harwood was a young man of means, 
and good looking withal— though that was of second- 
ary importance — and Miss Laura had designs upon 
him. 

“ I declare, it’s your dinner time, ain’t it?” as 
innocently as if she had not been fully aware of it 


- 58 - 

before she knocked at the door. “ Don’t let us hinder 
you. For my part, I don’t see how you can eat din- 
ner at this time of day. We don’t have ours until 
five o’clock.” 

” I confess that I prefer dinner at night myself,” 
replied Alice. “ But, when a man does hard work, he 
needs his most substantial meal in the middle of the 
day.” 

“ That is so,” said Mr. Harwood, “ and I am not 
yet weaned from Yankee customs.” 

“ Then you are from New England?” ejaculated 
Alice, breathlessly. ” From what part, pray ?” 

“ From W , Massachusetts.” 

“ Ah ! And I am from New Hampshire. But 
Massachusetts is almost equally familiar to me. I 
have cousins living near W .” 

” May I ask their names?” 

Laura was not at all pleased with Mr. Harwood’s 
tone of interest, or with the turn in the conversation. 
She had been born and bred on the Pacific coast, and 
entertained a supreme contempt for everything out- 
side of San Francisco. Alice’s answer was checked 
by the arrival of her brother, who passed the muslin- 
draped window and proceeded to wash his face and 
hands at the bench by the kitchen door. Mr. Har- 
wood arose and said , “ Do please excuse us for both- 
ering you at this hour. I will inquire about the 


— 59 — 


cousins some other time. Come, Miss Fayette, let us 
give Miss Marriner a chance to give her brother his 
dinner.” 

“ Not until I have introduced him to you,” 
entreated Alice, who was in no wise ashamed of her 
miner brother, despite his blue flannel shirt and ugly 
overalls. “ And won’t you both stay to dinner?” 

I^aura declared that it would be utterly impossi- 
ble for her to eat a morsel so soon after breakfast, 
and Mr. Harwood politely declined. 

“ Come in, Henry,” called Alice, “ I want to see 
you.” 

“ Henry ” appeared in the doorway— a sunburned, 
honest-faced young man of about twenty- five, whose 
eyes lighted affectionately as they rested upon his 
sister. Miss Fayette bowed distantly, and Alice intro- 
duced the young men to each other. They shook 
hands cordially,, and presently Henry supplemented 
his sister’s invitation for the callers to remain to din- 
ner, while Alice, warned by the advancing hand of the 
clock, began to spread the table. The visitors still 
declined, however, and bowed themselves out, L^aura 
urging Alice, with hypocritical ardor, to come and 
see her often. Alice flew around like a bird, and soon 
had the satisfaction of seeing her brother sitting at 
the table, and doing ample justice to her cooking. 

“ Come, sis, sit down,” said Henry ; “ there’s 


/ 


— 6o — 

enough on the table for three or four men now. Sit 
down, and tell me all about your fine company. But 
did you have that smooch on your face when they 
were here?” pausing with a piece of meat half- way to 
his mouth. 

” What smooch?” Alice hastily arose and crossed 
to the little looking-glass. “Oh, horrible!” as she 
beheld a sooty mark upon one temple. “ However 
did that get there ? Oh ! I know ; it was when I 
stooped down to baste the meat. I remember that I 
hit my forehead against the corner of the stove. Oh, 
I never, never will go to the door again until I have 
looked into the glass.’” Her overcharged feelings 
could not longer be controlled. She burst into tears. 
She liked Mr. Harwood so much, and what must he 
think of her ? It was bad enough for I<olly Fayette 
to show him how different her life was from that to 
which he was accustomed; but this was far worse, for 
this savored of untidiness, and Alice knew that every 
well-regulated man had a healthy horror of the least 
indication of a sloven in a woman. 

“ Tut, tut, sis,” said Henry, soothingly. “ Don’t 
cry. That’s only a trifle.” 

“But it looks so — so — frowsly,” becoming inco- 
herent, “ like a — a — .” Sobs finished the sentence. 

“ See here, Allie,” cried Henry, jumping up and 
putting his arms around the quivering figure, “ I can’t 


have you feeling like this. You’re all tired out and 
used up with the heat. You shan’t work so any more. 
I’ll get some one to help you before I’m a day older.” 

If Henry Marriner had been a strategist, instead 
of a great, warm-hearted fellow who loved his little 
sister dearly, he could not have hit upon a surer 
method of drying Alice’s tears. 

“ Go back to your dinner, you foolish boy,” she 
cammanded; “and don’t you dare to talk to me 
about ‘ help.’ A pretty young woman I am if I can’t 
do all there is to be done just for you and I. You are 
not afraid to soil your hands with work — why should 
I be above a paltry smooch on my face ? Come, dear, 
try some of my pudding.” 

Laura Fayette was not quite sure that her scheme 
had worked in the desired manner, as she pursued her 
way homeward. Wallace accompanied her as far as 
the gate, but quietly declined her urgent invitation 
to lunch, and, lifting his hat, passed on. If she had 
chanced to be in the neighborhood of the Marriners 
just before dusk on the following day, she would 
have seen something which would have convinced 
her that her labors had been in vain — Wallace Har- 
wood taking a reluctant leave of Alice Marriner, just 
outside the open door, after a pleasant call, when no 
discordant element had marred an earnest, unconven- 
tional conversation. 


62 — 


Wallace had lost no time in inquiring about the 
“ cousins near W and judging by the fre- 

quency of his calls thereafter, and the length of his 
interviews with Miss Alice, there must have been 
a great deal to say about the distant relatives. It was 
not long before the residents of Miner’s Flat became 
accustomed to seeing these two out riding together 
at the sunset hour, or walking arm-in-arm up and 
down the moonlit street, enjoying the cool breezes 
that seldom failed to blow over the camp at night, 
after a long and sultry day. It was patent to every- 
one that the elegant young visitor had fallen “ dead 
in love” with pretty, unpretending Alice Marriner. 
Some croaked that his attention could mean no good 
— a rich young fellow like him would never marry a 
miner’s sister. But their doubts were set at rest one 
fine morning in autumn, when a certain marriage 
notice met their eyes in the Daily Silver Star, coupled 
with the announcement that the happy pair would 
leave Miner’s Flat on the twelve o’clock stage for an 
extended tour through the Eastern states prior to set- 
tling in their new home in Southern California. 

“ It’s so good of you, Wallace, dear,” said the 
bride, “ to decide that you will live in Santa Barbara 
so that Henry and I need not be separated, for he 
would hardly dare venture into a cold climate yet. 
And it will be so nice for him to take charge of that 


- 63 - 


ranch you have bought. He will soon be as strong 
as ever, I know. I can’t think how you ever came to 
fancy such a plain little mortal as I am, Wallace.” 
The brown eyes looked up to his with a world of 
love and confidence in them. 

“ It was that mid-day call which did it,” laughed 
Wallace. “ I liked your appearance before, but that 
finished me.” 

“ Pray, what constituted the charm, my lord ! 
Could it have been the dusky smooch that ornament- 
ed my brow ? Or was it my healthy color ? Speak, 
I conjure you, and solve the mystic problem.” 

“ I warn you not to be saucy,” and Wallace gave 
his wife a specimen of the punishment in store for 
her. ” It was one — both — everything. It was the 
vast difference between you and the ordinary girl of 
the period — the fa.shionable miss who is too delicate 
to work, but able to dance all night; who despises 
honest poverty, but cares not from how disgraceful a 
source the money emanates which slips through her 
fingers so quickly. Pshaw ! what do I want of a wife 
like that? What enjoyment could I derive from her 
companionship ? What would I find in her to love? 
I have jyoz^, my treasure. God be thanked for that. I 
know your worth, and may I be worthy of you ! I 
don’t intend that these dear hands shall ever be 
employed in wearisome tasks, but it is a pleasant 


- 64 - 


thought that if it were necessary, you would work 
them to the bone for one you loved.” 

“Indeed I would,” exclaimed Alice. 

“I trust you will never be obliged to, my darl- 
ing,” replied Wallace, gravely and reverently. “ But 
how different is Laura Fayette ! As long as her 
father continues to prosper in the liquor business, 
she can play the lady ; but if reverses come, as they 
so frequently do in these reckless frontier towns, 
where will she be? She served me one good turn, 
though unwittingly, when she brought me to your 
door on that scorching July day just four months 
ago. She paved the way for the happiness which 
I now^ enjoy, and well thank her for that, will we 
not, my dearest ? ” 

“ Actions speak louder than words,” and Wallace 
Harwood was fully satisfied with his answer. 


THE MYSTERIOUS MISS AEDEMAN. 


^^LIAVE you called on Miss Aldeman yet, my 
1 1 dear?” queried Mr. Morley, as he compla- 
cently brushed a crumb from his immaculate shirt 
front, while awaiting the arrival of dessert upon the 
table. 

” Called upon Miss Aldeman ! Certainly not,” 
responded Mrs. Morley, in tones of unmistakable 
astonishment and hauteur. 

” And why ‘ certainly not ? ’ ” persisted the head 
of the house. Mrs. Morley looked across the well 
appointed table at him for a moment in speechless 
indignation. ” One would think you expected me to 
associate with all the common people in town,” she 
said at last, cuttingly. “Miss Aldeman is not in ‘our 
set ’ at all. Why, she works for a living 

If the young lady in question had committed 
some heinous crime, it could not have been spoken of 
with more crushing emphasis. 

‘‘Well, what of that?” replied Mr. Morley, 
quietly. ‘‘ So do I, for that matter. I suppose you 
(65) 


— 66 - 


Gonsider me in your set? ” And the impertinent man 
arched his eyebrows and looked over at his wife in 
affected concern. 

“ You are ridiculous, Mr. Morley,” snapped that 
irate individual. “It is perfectly honorable and au 
Jait for a man to support his family, and your occu- 
pation of broker is eminently respectable. But Miss 
Aldeman actually teaches music, and sews, and I 
don’t know what all. How she can have the face to 
put herself among high-toned people, I don’t see.” 

“ Perhaps because that face is so very good-look- 
ing, my dear,” said Mr. Morley, facetiously. “I’m 
sure I don’t see anything dishonorable in a young 
lady earning her own living in whatever manner 
she finds it possible to do so, if she has no one to 
earn it for her. It is true, it is more fashionable for 
a girl to know nothing of any real consequence, to sit 
in the parlor all day long with Kmp hands and pro- 
nounce life a bore, until she catches some foolish fel- 
low, who doesn’t know any better, in the matrimonial 
noose. But, for my part, I prefer the girl of old times. 
She was sensible, and, when she married, she made a 
good help-meet to her lucky husband. Ah, well, one 
does not see many of that kind now-a-days.” 

Mr. Morley sighed, and munched his grapes with 
an abstracted air, which gave place to one of amuse- 
ment on hearing his wife’s next sally. 


— 67 — 


“ I really believe, Freeman Morley, that you have 
fallen in love with lyouise Aldeman ! ” 

Now this was an absurd speech, for Mr. Freeman 
Morley was bald-headed, rotund, and being on the 
shady side of fifty, not a man calculated to inspire 
the tender passion in the heart of a young lady, or 
prone to cherish other than paternal feelings towards 
one so many years his junior. 

“Not so fast, my dear,” remarked Mr. Morley, 
good-humoredly. A man is always in good humor 
after dinner, you know, and then Mr. Morley had 
never been in ill humor a dozen times in his life. 
“ Not so fast. I certainly admire the young lady for 
her independence, and the sterling good qualities 
that I believe her to possess; but I don’t think it 
need to cause you any uneasiness, my dear. I spoke 
of her to day because I met her on my way home to 
dinner, and it occurred to me to ask if you had 
made her acquaintance. I am positive you would 
like her, Mrs. Morley.” 

The lady deigned no reply to this, but dinner 
being over, sailed majestically from the room. 

Touise Aldeman, the subject of this post prandial 
discussion, was a very prepossessing looking young 
lady, of quiet, well-bred demeanor, who made her 
appearance in the aspiring-to-be-fashionable town of 
Nebulon, California, some five or six months previous 


— 68 - 


to the opening of our story. Little was known about 
her save that she brought letters of recommendation 
from the East to the pastor of one of the churches, 
and one or two other prominent personages. These, 
coupled with the young lady’s pleasing appearance, 
produced so favorable an impression that she was, at 
her earnest request, admitted to board in the pastor’s 
own family, and was given the entree to a very 
respectable class of society. Some there were who, 
like Mrs. Morley, stood aloof from the new comer, on 
account of the mystery surrounding her antecedents 
and the evident impoverished condition of her purse ; 
but she had, by this time, won warm friends as well, 
friends who occupied a social status, in some cases, 
equal to that of Mrs. Morley. This was what occa- 
sioned that haughty dame’s insinuation that Miss 
Aldeman had “ put herself” among people of unex- 
ceptionable standing in the community. Miss Aide- 
man herself would have indignantly, if quietly, 
resented the inference had she heard it, for she pos- 
sessed a nature that, .so far from being obtrusive, was 
very considerably reserved. Instead of making 
advances herself, it was found necessary by those 
desirous of forming her acquaintance, to seek her 
company ; and their favors, if accepted at all, were 
received with a mingling of self-respect and apprecia- 
tion. Those who knew her best declared that, 


— 69 — 


behind the mask which she presented to the world, 
there existed the warmest, most sympathetic of hearts, 
and an eloquence of tongue not suspected by the pub- 
lic, who found her a delightful listener, but a modest 
conversationalist. Miss Aldeman had been in Nebu- 
lon but a week when she advertised for pupils in 
music, and, three months later, finding the class not 
sufficiently remunerative to place her on a secure 
monetary basis, even by the exercise of the most 
rigid economy, she signified her willingness to do 
dressmaking, either in families, or at home. A cer- 
tain number of days in each week were devoted to 
this occupation, there being no dearth of customers, 
and those remaining were set aside for the music les- 
sons. The children loved their teacher, and made 
good progress. The fact could not be denied that 
Miss Aldeman was a thorough mistress of the piano, 
and her services were sometimes secured at concerts 
and entertainments, when she never failed to add 
greatly to the merits of the programme. But when 
Mrs. Freeman Morley, and others of like calibre, had 
the management of such affairs, it is needless to say 
that Miss Aldeman’s services were not required. 
Despite her impecunious situation, her attire was 
always that befitting a lady of refinement. She had 
apparently lost some friend quite recently, although 
she did not wear deep mourning, but confined herself 


70 — 


to plain black or white. The excellent material 
invariably used, the style of construction, and the 
manner of wearing, all combined to give her a dis- 
tingue air in whatever costume she assumed. It was 
really too provoking, Mrs. Morley thought Much as 
she prided herself on her undisputed position, her 
haughty carriage, and her luxuriant wardrobe, she 
envied Miss Aldeman the nameless air of grace and 
elegance that hung about her. But the presuming 
creature worked for a living, and was, therefore, not a 
fit companion for those “ born to the purple.” Born, 
did I say? That was not the case with Mrs Morley. 
Her father was a hard-working shoemaker, and his 
daughter found it necessary to go out to service at the 
period of her life when she ought to have been attend- 
ing school. But ad that was forgotten long ago, and 
woe betide Freeman Morley should he so far forget 
himself as to allude to that buried past. Mrs. Morley, 
like many another similarly situated woman, became 
arrogant and vain on her assumption to wealth, and 
displayed an infinitesimal amount of either charity or 
sympathy for those traveling over the same rough road 
her now delicately shod feet had once trodden. It is 
so the world over. Well born and carefully reared 
people, who are accustomed from earliest infancy to 
all the advantages of what is termed “high life,” seldom 
forget what constitutes a true lady or gentleman, 


A few evenings after the above quoted conversa- 
tion of Mr. and Mrs. Morley, the handsome mansion 
of Mrs. Warner, wife of the principal merchant of 
the town, was brilliantly lighted, and thrown open to 
the creme de la creme of Nebulon society. Silks 
rustled, jewels flashed, and the perfume from a wealth 
of exotics fllled the air. Conspicuous among the 
fashionably attired throng Miss Aldeman stood, tall, 
pale, queenly, her exquisitely fitting robe of heavy 
black silk forming a decided contrast to her surround- 
ings, but presenting no sense of incongruity in its 
quiet elegance. A lily nestling among the rich laces 
at her throat, and another amid the dark braids of her 
hair, formed her only ornaments. 

She had not cared to attend this part5^ in fact, 
had felt a strange reluctance in doing so, a shrinking 
as from some ill to come. But Mrs. Warner had 
insisted on her services in filling up a programme 
which embraced the best vocal and instrumental tal- 
ent in town, and she had cast aside her misgivings 
with a light laugh at their folly. 

The evening was well advanced. Half the pro- 
gramme had been accomplished. Miss Aldeman had 
rendered one of Beethoven’s sonatas in a masterly 
manner, and the assembled company were enjoying 
an interval of sociability, when the hum of voices, and 
the sound of merry laughter, filled the spacious apart- 


— 72 — 


ments. Miss Aldeman, sitting in a low chair near the 
piano, conversing with a couple of benign old ladies, 
was half hidden from those standing about her. Un- 
consciously her attention was drawn to a conversation 
near at hand. 

“Who are those new arrivals,” asked a blithe 
young voice ; “they are most fashionably late — it must 
be past eleven.” 

“ I don’t know,” responded another feminine 
voice, “ but I judge they are acquisitions to our rather 
limited circle of attractive young men. The taller one, 
in particular, is very fine-looking. I say, Rob, who are 
those young gentlemen just bowing to Miss Warner?” 

“Hey? with Miss Warner?” rather absently 
queried the “ Rob ” addressed, turning his eyes reluct- 
antly from a fair face across the room, to the direc- 
tion indicated by his sister. “ Why — no, it can’t be 
— by Jove! it is. Hal Bentley’s got home! And 
that’s his chum with him — travelled over Europe 
together — inseparable since they met at college. I 
saw them both a few months ago, when I was East.” 

“ But what is the other gentleman’s name,” per- 
sisted the young girl on the other side of “ Rob’s ” 
sister. “ He must surely be known by some other 
appelation than that of ‘ Hal Bentley’s chum.’ ” And 
the saucy miss darted a look of captivating archness 
from beneath her dainty eyebrows. 


73 — 


“ Oh, didn’t I tell you? Well, Miss Inquisitive- 
ness, his name is Ralph Winchester. I see that you 
girls are meditating mischief already ; but I warn you 
that Winchester’s no easy game — said to be proof 
against womankind. You’ll find Hal on hand for a 
flirtation, though.” 

Here the colloquy came to an abrupt termination, 
for a sudden bustle in the rear caused the speakers to 
turn their heads in quest of the cause of the confu- 
sion. 

“ Look at Miss Aldeman ! ” whispered one to 
another. She, who had never since her advent in 
Nebulon swerved from the maintenance of perfect 
composure, was actually being led through the low 
window to the vine-wreathed piazza outside, in a 
fainting condition. Adolph Warner, the eldest son 
of the hostess, chancing to be close by Miss Aldeman’s 
side, sprang to her relief when she swayed in her 
chair, and caught her hurried words, gasped forth 
with difiiculty — “take me away — away from here, 
quick ! ” 

He at once put aside the ladies who closed around 
them with ejaculations of sympathy and proffers of 
assistance, and half carried the drooping girl into the 
balmy night air, which he knew would act as the 
most powerful restorative that could be administered. 

“She will be better directly,” he said, “as soon 


— 74 — 


as she gets out of this close room. She had better be 
perfectly quiet.” 

“ I told her only yesterday,” asseverated a matron 
of commanding mein, “ that she was killing herself; 
but she declared that work was good for her.” 

Adolph seated Miss Aldeman in a large wicker 
chair, and, perceiving that there was now little danger 
of her losing consciousness, hurried away for a glass 
of water. Silently she drank as he held the glass to her 
lips, then, with a low murmur of thanks, sank back 
in her chair. But, as he was about to speak, she half 
rose, and cried out; 

“ Oh, Mr. Warner, I must go home at once. Will 
you make an excuse to Mrs. Warner? I am really 
unable to play again, and I had better go home.” 

“ But not yet. Miss Aldeman, really not yet. You 
are not strong enough. Certainly you must not play 
again, and I will explain to mother, but you had bet- 
ter sit here until you are entirely recovered.” 

^‘No, no, I can not,” responded Miss Aldeman, 
excitedly. “ I would much rather go home. It is not 
far.” 

An4, finding it useless to remonstrate, Adolph 
procured her wraps, and escorted her down the quiet 
street to her boarding-place. It was, as she said, not 
far; but he could not help wondering at her deter- 
ipination to take so sudden a departure, and at th^ 


“75 - 


curious change from her habitual self-possession. 
Although several years younger than she, Adolph 
had for some time cherished a profound admiration 
for Miss Aldeman, and he now felt proud to be able to 
render her a service, and expressed as much when she 
turned to speak to him, with a few grateful words, as 
they stood on the steps of the pastor’s residence. He 
then went back to the scene of festivity, where he 
recounted the events of the past half hour to his 
mother. Mrs. Warner was sorry, very sorry to learn 
of Miss Aldeman’s indisposition, and regretted that 
her guests would not have the pleasure of listening to 
that gem of Schubert’s which the young lady had 
promised them. 

“Yes certainly,’’ she replied to Adolph’s request, 
“she would call to-morrow, and see if Miss Aldeman 
was completely recovered.’’ 

After settling this matter, Adolph sought out the 
new-comers, who were attracting a great deal of atten- 
tion, and the three young men were soon exchanging 
cordial greetings. Hal Bentley was not a stranger in 
Nebulon, although unknown to Ella Newton and her 
bosom friend, Kitty Glover, who had been away from 
home for some years, attending school at Oakland, 
during which time the Bentleys had come to Nebulon 
to reside, and Hal had left for Yale College, afterward 
traveling in Europe for a year, and dallying for some 


■— 76 — 

months on the Atlantic coast. At last he returned to 
his family, a well grown, handsome, high spirited 
young fellow, whose black eyes had already sought 
out the prettiest faces in the room, and were working 
havoc in the hearts of their owners. 

But the elder and taller gentleman, Ralph Win- 
chester, was, as Ella Newton had discriminatingly 
affirmed, the more striking looking of the two. 
Strictly speaking, his features were not as perfect as 
those of Hal Bentley, yet there was a likeness about 
them which formed a harmonious whole. It was a 
strong face and a noble head, which surmounted a 
frame of fine physical proportions. The clear gray 
eyes were searching, keen, yet kind — those eyes 
which, under passion’s influence, deepen to a shadowy 
darkness, or glow with infinite tenderness — eyes 
which bespeak a loyal, ardent, trustworthy soul 
within. For him, the bevy of fair young girls assem- 
bled in Mrs. Warner’s parlors had no more attraction 
than would arise from the presence of beauty in any 
form and place. In the abstract, it pleased him as 
one walking through a smooth and grassy field is 
pleased at the sight of numerous dainty blossoms 
growing along the pathway. Individually, they did 
not occupy an iota of his thoughts. This was his 
first visit to California. He had yielded to the per- 
suasions of his chum to accompany him home, think- 


— 77 — 


ing it might possibl}^ allay the grief that was gnaw- 
ing at his heart For months he had striven to 
remove the obstacle that suddenly and without warn- 
ing had interposed itself between him and anticipated 
happiness, and his struggles had been in vain. He 
was prone now to relinquish all hope, yet he could 
not have it so. 

What in creation are you biting your moustache 
like that for, and staring into space with the most 
utterly lugubrious air? Don’t you know you’re at a 
party?” cried Hal Bentley. “A pretty idea these 
Nebulon girls will form of my chum ! They’ll think 
I’ve brought home an ogre, instead of the rarely fas- 
cinating man that you are, Ralph.” 

“ Much obliged, I’m sure,” murmured Ralph with 
a faint smile, coming back to a realizing sense of his 
whereabouts. “ I believe I was out of order. You 
must bear with me a little longer, old boy ; I shan’t 
bother you as much as I have in the past.” 

“ Ah, the deuce! it’s that girl again ! Come now’, 
Winchester, you’ve had heart aches enough over that 
business. You know the old saying “ There’s as good 
fish in the sea as ever — ” 

Hal stopped abruptly, warned by his companion’s 
rebuking glance ; and, a moment later, was introduc- 
ing Mr. Winchester to half a dozen expectant girls. 
Miss Aldeman did not keep her appointments the 


- 7 §- 


day after the party, and she sent word to her music 
pupils that she would be obliged to take a week’s 
vacation. Those who were sufi&ciently interested to 
call and inquire for her welfare, found her not 
actually ill, but apparently fatigued by overwork, 
requiring a brief respite from her usual round of 
duties. The good pastor and his wife, who were 
daily associated with her, surmised that something 
more than physical ailments was disturbing her ; but 
they did not press her confidence, and wisely breathed 
no word of their suspicions to the outside world. 
The truth was that Louise Aldeman did not dare to 
go out. She was fearful of being recognized by one 
whom it would be pain unspeakable to her to meet. 
Would she ever be able to school her emotions, she 
wondered, and speak to this man with the indifference 
that she manifested toward others, which it was now 
her duty to feel toward him ? What a narrow escape 
she had from being brought unexpectedly face to face 
with him at Mrs. Warner’s party. And what would 
have been the denouement^ had such an unhappy event 
occurred? Louise shuddered and turned scarlet, as 
she thought how nearly she had betrayed her secret 
to the gossips of Nebulon. 

Some one, she did not know who it was, had said 
that Hal Bently and his friend were going to the city 
in a few days, to take in the sights. If she could only 


-79 — 


keep out of sight until then, all would be well, for she 
would be miles away from Nebulon ere they returned. 
But it was not likely that so remarkable a personage 
as Miss Aldeman would fail to be mentioned among 
the young men for any considerable time ; and so it 
happened that one afternoon, when several of “the 
boys ” were enjoying their cigars on the promenade 
overlooking the sea. Miss Aldeman’s name was intro- 
duced. 

“ I say, Hal, you ought to see her,” said Robert 
Newton. “ She’s a regular stunner. Not loud, either, 
you know — but stylish, and haughty as an empress. 
You’d never imagine her as poor as Job’s turkey.” 

“ What did you say her name was?” asked Hal, 
looking askance at Ralph Winchester, who had been 
loitering in the rear, and who had reached Hal’s side 
only in season to hear the conclusion of Bob’s speech. 

“ Miss Aldeman,” replied Bob. 

Ralph’s head was lifted instantly, and he took 
an eager step forward, his eyes flashing, and his 
entire aspect that of a man suddenly aroused from 
lethargy to intense activity. 

“ Miss Aldeman ? Of whom are you speaking ? 
That is not a common name.” 

He made a strong effort to control his emotion, as 
he addressed himself to Robert Newton. 

“Of a young lady who came here about six 


— 8o — 


months ago, from where nobody knows, who has cre- 
ated quite a little stir in the community by her per- 
sonal charms and her musical endowments, added to 
the veil of mystery that enshrouds her life. No one 
knows who she is, or why she came alone to a strange 
town to earn her living, for she has no money.” 

“ Describe her appearance, if you please.” 

Newton looked around at Winchester with some 
curiosity, as he heard the strained voice, but Ralph 
was walking quietly along, seemingly intent upon 
clipping from its stem, with the cane he swung, each 
bit of a blossom that gemmed the pathway ; for it was 
soon after the close of the rainy season, and the 
Golden State lay decked in her rarest garments. 

A very fair description of Miss Aldeman fol- 
lowed, concluded by the remark, that “ more than 
one fellow would be glad to win her, mystery and all, 
but she wouldn’t give anybody a chance.” 

“ I think I know this Miss Aldeman,” said Ralph, 
quietly, but Hal Bentley noted the effort it cost him. 
“ I should like to meet her, and see if it is the lady 
that I once knew in the East.” 

“You know her? By Jove!” and the young 
men circled around Winchester. 

“ Tell us about her. Is she all right?” 

The flippant youth who approached with the last 
query shrank back intimidated as he encountered a 


— 8i — 


lightning flash of anger from Winchester’s eyes. 

“ She is a perfect lady,” Ralph said, impressively, 
” and was highly esteemed as such where she resided. 
Come, Hal ; help me to find her.” 

” She boards at Rev. Mr. Haydn’s,” said one of 
the number. 

” All right,” responded Hal, before anyone else 
had a chance to offer to accompany Winchester. 
” I’m acquainted with the Haydns. We’ll call around 
together.” 

And they bade adieu to their companions and 
retraced their steps to the town. 

” I fibbed a little then, Ralph,” said Hal, when 
they were at a safe distance from the others. “ I’ve 
no idea of going with you — of course I should be 
de trop. But I’ll show you where the minister lives, 
for I know you won’t heed my advice to keep away. 
Good luck to you, my boy. I hope this miserable 
business will be explained now.” 

Ralph wrung his friend’s hand in speechless 
emotion. His face was white, and the muscles were 
tense and drawn. 

As Hal turned a corner to another street, he saw 
Ralph standing on the steps of the house pointed out 
to him, awaiting an answer to his pull at the door 
bell. A more opportune time could not have been 
chosen. Mr. and Mrs. Haydn were spending the 


— 82 


afternoon in the country, and there was no one in the 
house but Miss Aldeman and the Chinaman who pre- 
sided over the culinary department of the establish- 
ment, who chanced to pass by the front door just as 
the bell rang, and who good-naturedly ushered the 
caller straightway into Miss Aldeman’s presence in 
the back parlor, where she sat fashioning a dainty 
tidy for Mrs. Haydn. 

“ Louise ! ” 

“ Ralph ! ” 

Miss Aldeman sprang from her chair with the 
vague intention of beating a retreat, but got no farther 
than Ralph Winchester’s arms, which enclosed her as 
if they could never relinquish their hold. A moment 
she rested passively in his embrace, and she could feel 
his strong frame tremble ; then she summoned all her 
strength and pushed him from her. The tender, 
happy light which glowed on his face gave place to 
a look of sternness. 

‘‘ Why do you put me from you, Louise,” he said. 
“ Have you then ceased to love me? ” 

The stern voice sank to a tone of deep sadness, 
and he gazed reproachfully at Miss Aldeman’s flushed 
countenance. 

“ Why have you come here to torture me thus?” 
she cried, no longer the quiet, self-contained being 
the people of Nebulon had known. “ What do you 


- 83 - 


mean by embracing me in this manner ? I gave you 
up long ago, and prayed that you might be happy 
with the one you love. I went away, where I thought 
I should never look upon your face again. Have you 
found me out only to taunt me with my love for you? 
Oh, you are cruel, cruel!” and the excited woman 
burst into a fit of violent sobbing. 

“ You are talking in enigmas,” said Ralph, com- 
ing forward, and striving to remove her hands from 
her face. ” I do not understand you. Nor could I 
comprehend why you wrote me such a note six 
months ago, or why you suddenly disappeared from 
all who knew you, and no tidings could be gained of 
your whereabouts. I think you were the cruel one, 
Louise. Ah ! you don’t know what I’ve suffered.” 

“Do I hear aright ?” she said. ''You have suf- 
fered? Ah, Heaven, but I thought the suffering was 
all mine, and you were happy.” 

“ It was with the hope of clearing up this mys 
tery that I came to you this afternoon, Louise,” said 
Ralph, gently. 

“Are you not married?” Miss Aldeman asked 
suddenly. 

“ Married ! my darling, I shall never marry any 
woman but you.” 

She stared at him a moment incredulously. 

“Wait here an instant,” she said, and left the 


-84 — 


room, returnly directly with an open letter, which 
she placed in Ralph’s hand, who beheld the following 
words : 

“Miss Ai^dkman You are engaged to Ralph 
Winchester, and he will marry you, because he has 
plighted you his word, and because the death of your 
father has left you penniless. He is too noble-hearted 
to cause you suffering, at a time when you are doubly 
in need of his solace and support. But although 
thus true to you in action, his heart has swerved 
from its allegiance. He loves another, and that other 
is Lucy Talbot. You are informed of this now, 
because it is better for you to know it now than after 
marriage. A Weli. Wisher.” 

Ralph read the lines through slowly, then cov- 
ered his eyes with his hand. Silence reigned through- 
out the apartment. Raising his head, he stretched out 
one hand until it touched Miss Aldeman’s in a firm 
clasp, as she sat near by, and, in a solemn tone, said : 

“ Louise, Heaven is my witness, the charge made 
against me in that letter is utterly false. I never 
entertained other than friendly feelings for Miss 
Talbot. I have loved you all the time, and I shall 
always love you. Do you believe me, dearest? ” 

The proud head was drawn to his shoulder now, 
and he stooped until his moustache brushed her cheek 
as he awaited her answer. 


- 85 - 


“ I can not doubt you, Ralph,” she said, and her 
arms stole about his neck. ” But what a horrible 
mistake it has been ! Who could have written such 
a deliberate falsehood ? ” 

Ralph hesitated a moment 

” It is best that you should know all, dear,” he 
said, at length. ” I recognized that handwriting. It 
is Lucy Talbot’s. She knew your noble, self-sacrific- 
ing nature so well that she must have been confident 
you would do exactly as you did — quietly and with- 
out explanation give me up, and leave the field clear 
to her, thinking it would ensure my happiness. Poor 
girl ! it was a dreadful thing for her to die with the 
burden of such a sin upon her.” 

” Die? is she dead? ” 

“Yes, darling. I forgot that you had heard noth- 
ing from home all this time. She was thrown from 
her horse and instantly killed in less than a week 
after you went away. The revelation of her duplicity, 
and unfitness for death, almost overpowered me just 
now. But how could you believe such a thing of me, 
Louise ? And why did you not give me a chance to 
speak for myself?” 

“ I dared not trust myself to see you, Ralph. It 
was so hard, so terribly hard to give you up. I was 
unreasonable, no doubt, and formed my conclusions 
too hastily, but I was almost beside myself with grief. 


— 86 — 


and little things, before unnoticed, seemed to confirm 
that dreadful letter. I thought the kindest thing I 
could do would be to hide myself forever away from 
you and her.” 

The tears rolled down Louise’s cheeks at the 
recollection of her past suffering. Ralph kissed them 
away as he jocosely remarked : 

“ And a pretty time I’ve had of it, hunting for 
you. But I’ve got you now, and you won’t escape 
me again. It’s very handy having a parson right in 
the house, and I shan’t be satisfied until the knot is 
fairly tied. By the way, what is this I have heard 
about your going out to work? I’m afraid you’ve 
had a hard tussle with the world, my poor darling.” 

“ No, I have not,” declared Louise. “ I have 
worked, to be sure, and I should have died if I had 
not kept myself constantly busy — it has been the best 
panacea for my heart ache. I have been strong and 
well, and my work has not been disagreeable. My 
little music scholars love me, and as to the sewing — 
oh, you needn’t start, why isn’t sewing as good an 
employment as any? I always took to the needle 
handily.” 

“But you, with your delicate breeding, your 
accomplishments, surely could have engaged in some 
more congenial pursuit. I don t like to think of you 
being anybody’s drudge.” 


- 87 - 


“ Now you are absurd,” said IvOUise, emphasizing 
the statement with a soft little kiss on his sober face. 
“Just as if there was any more drudgery in making 
pretty dresses and aprons than in beating French and 
mathematics and English literature into the craniums 
of stupid boys and girls, or correcting perspectives and 
inculcating the principles of ‘ free hand ’ drawing 
when refractory fingers refuse to come within a rod of 
the mark. Besides, all the positions of this kind are 
taken up here.” 

“ How came you to choose this far-away place for 
your self-imposed exile?” 

“ Because it was my birth-place, and I always had 
a desire to visit it. If poor father had lived another 
winter we should have come here together. He spent 
a winter here with my mother, early in their married 
life, and here I was born. But there are so many 
boarders here every year that the circumstance was 
long ago forgotten, and no one in Nebulon has the 
least idea who I am. I did not wish any one to know. 
I would not run the slightest risk of my whereabouts 
being discovered.” 

“ Obstinate girl !” But the tone and look belied 
the words ; and the hearts of the lovers were filled to 
overflowing with joy at the felicitous termination of 
their estrangement. 

All Nebulon was surcharged with astonishment 


— 88 — 


when it became known that the handsome stranger 
and the obscure Miss Aldeman were engaged to be 
married, and that the young lady in question was 
obscure no longer, for she was the only daughter of 
none other than the famous Prof. Aldeman, whose 
renown as a leader and authority in scientific circles 
had reached every State in the Union. 

“ Strange we didn’t think of the similarity ol 
names,” said a busybody, ” although, of course, no one 
would have thought of her being his daughter. No 
wonder she has such airs. I heard Hal Bently tell 
his mother that she had traveled all over the Old 
World with her father, who was always hunting up 
something in the scientific line ; and that their asso- 
ciates were savants and artists, and the proudest in 
the land were glad to show the Professor attention. 
But he never could manage money matters, and he 
died suddenly in his chair one day, leaving her with- 
out a dollar. You know we often wondered where 
she got her good clothes, and real laces, etc. It seems 
she had them all before her father died. Hal says 
she used to dress elegantly — her father was always 
buying her presents.” 

” Hum ! quite a remarkable case,” said Mrs. Mor- 
ley to whom these remarks were addressed. “ Of 
course I shall call now. I used to know Prof. Aide- 
man when I w^s a girl.” 


- 89 - 


She might have added, but did not, that she was 
employed as a sort of upper house servant in the 
family of the young lady who afterwards became Miss 
Aldeman’s mother, and that her acquaintance with 
the Professor consisted of a secret admiration for that 
handsome young man as she watched the course of 
his courtship. 

Kindhearted Mr. Morley was truly rejoiced at the 
turn of affairs. 

“ I^ord bless you !” he said to Miss Aldeman one 
day. “ Come to think of it, I made your acquaintance 
when you hadn’t been in this world more’n three 
months, and a right smart black-eyed baby you were, 
too. I recollect how proud the Professor was of you, 
and how gentle, and sweet and pretty your mother 
looked. She was one of that kind that never lives 
long. And so you’re going to leave us, hey ? And 
ain’t going alone, either? Well you needn’t blush, 
he’s a fine fellow — anybody can see that— and I wish 
you joy.” 

It was, indeed, but a very short time before Miss 
Aldeman left the pretty town by the sea where a 
peculiar episode of her life had been enacted. One 
sunny afternoon in May (but are not all California 
afternoons sunny), there was a quiet wedding at the 
house of the Rev. Mr. Haydn ; and the steamer that 
plowed its way out of the harbor at sunset bore upon 


— 90 


its deck as happy a bride and groom as ever sailed 
over Pacific waters. The crowd assembled upon the 
landing waved their handkerchiefs, and strained their 
eyes to catch a last glimpse of her who was the mys- 
terious Miss Aldeman no longer. The sun set, the 
steamer rounded the Point, and Ralph Winchester 
drew Touise closer to his side, with an inward prayer 
of thanksgiving that she was at last his wife, his own 
sweet wife. 




THE SCHOOL-MA’AM OF MINERAL HILL. 


* * C HE ’s a ueat one, up an’ coming as you please, 
kD an’ yit she a’n’t stuck up,” said Jake Peters, 
looking after the new school-ma’am that had come to 
Mineral Hill to teach the infantile idea of the place 
“ how to shoot.” 

“ A Yankee, you can just bet on that,” asserted 
Jake’s “ pard,” for they were a pair of stalwart, blue- 
shirted miners who thus criticised the passer-by. 
” Here comes Bill Maxley, an’ if he a’n’t lookin’ arter 
her out o’ the corner of his eyes. Well, that’s the 
fust time I ever knowed Bill to take any stock in a 
female critter. He got h’isted by one once, and that 
let him out on the whole lot.” 

“ Hollo, Bill, what ’s up now? ” queried Jo Wal- 
ker. ” I see you a castin’ sheep’s eyes at the school- 
ma’am. My pard an’ I here have jist made up our 
minds that she ’s a stunner, but we did ’nt allow that 
you ’d give her a look. Did ye git busted playin’ 
faro last night, or air ye cornin’ down with fever an’ 
ager, or what ails ye ? ” 

Bill Maxley looked not over pleased with Jo’s 
(91) 


— 92 — 


good-natured chaffing, and showed signs of embarrass- 
ment at having been detected in his covert glances at 
the school-ma’am 

“ I don’t know as anything particular ’s the mat- 
ter,” he replied. ” I did lose all I had last night, 
though, but it a’n’t the first time I ’ve been dead 
broke.” 

“ Well, you ’d orter have sense enough to let it 
be the last,” said Jake Peters. “Why don’t you let 
gamblin’ alone ? There’s some folks we don’t expect 
nothin’ else of, they ’d be no account any where, but 
you, as any one kin see, has been a gentleman ; you ’d 
orter keep out o’ such scaly cump’ny. No offense, 
pard, but I hate to see you goin’ to the bad.” 

Bill colored, and shifted his position uneasily, 
but he knew too well what great, honest hearts beat 
beneath the rough exterior of these two miners to 
exhibit any anger at criticism occasioned by true 
friendship. It may be that his conscience gave him 
a few twinges that asserted the truth of Jake’s re- 
marks, for it was true that he had seen better days, 
and would once have deemed it impossible that he 
could contract habits which were now an every-day 
matter to him. 

What would his lady mother say if she knew of 
the hours that he spent in the gay saloons, where 
crowds of excited men stood around the gaming-table. 


— 93 - 


and liquors flowed freely from the varied-hued bottles 
behind the handsome bar ? What would his gentle 
sister Annie think if she was aware that the brother, 
who was once her embodiment of noble manhood, Had 
fallen so low ? Maud Hazeltine would probably curl 
her proud lip, and look around with renewed satisfac- 
tion at the luxuries about her, — for which she had 
broken her troth to him. Curse her! she was to 
blame for his ruin. But for her his mother and sis- 
ter would not be mourning his loss, ignorant of his 
whereabouts for three years past. But for her he 
would not be what he is now. Bah ! what a set of 
hypocrites these women were ! Enticing men on to 
make fools of themselves with alluring smiles and 
languishing looks, acting at love-making with such 
consummate skill, and then after all their caresses 
and protestations of undying affection, casting off 
their lovers for more desirable partis, for bigger dia- 
monds, richer dresses, grander equipages, more mag- 
nificent establishments? 

A devil-may-care expression spread itself over 
Maxley’s fine face, as he sauntered along, thinking of 
the time in the past when Maud Hazeltine had looked 
up at him with her beautiful blue eyes all aglow with 
lovelight (as he had insanely imagined), when her soft 
arms had clung about his neck, loth to part with him 


— 94 — 


for even a few hours, and her sweet, false voice had 
prattled of love in the most entrancing manner. 

He was the luckiest fellow in the universe^ and 
the sweetest of women was to be his wife ere six 
months had passed. That was before Theophilus 
Campernon came to Rayville, and set the feminine 
world agog with his horses and carriages, his servants 
in livery, and various appurtenances of unbounded 
wealth. Theophilus Campernon was sixty years old, 
and troubled with gout, owing to the fast living of 
thirty years or more, but his bank account was un- 
limited, and he was in search of a young wife. A 
spirited rivalry for the honor of presiding over the 
lion’s superb establishment sprang up among the fair 
ones of Rayville. 

For a time Maxley observed no change in Maud ; 
but soon it became a matter of much envious com- 
ment that Mr. Campernon had eyes and ears for no 
one but the beautiful Miss Hazeltine. Sundry bets 
of gloves and chocolates were laid by the young ladies 
of the neighborhood, in regard to the stability of 
Maud’s affections. Some, who were disposed to take 
every one at his best, could not believe that she would 
break her engagement, and throw over the best-look- 
ing young fellow in Rayville for the sake of a gray- 
headed old man with a little more money. Others, 
not inclined to take so favorable a view of human 


— 95 


nature, declared it their belief that Maud Hazeltine 
would not let slip the chance to become the greatest 
lady thereabouts, and they were right, — she did not. 

Will Maxley’s nature could not long brook the 
transfer of Maud’s favor from him to Theophilus 
Campernon, and stormy words ensued when Maud 
signified her intention to marry the richer suitor, 
regardless of vows that seemed to Will so sacred. 
Cut to the heart by his loved one’s peifidy. Will bade 
his mother and sister a hasty good-bye, and left home, 
in a nearly frantic state, for parts unknown. He had 
wandered from place to place, seeking relief from the 
pangs of disappointed affection that tormented him, 
and now here he was at Mineral Hill, in the far West, 
delving, with men from all parts of the w^orld, in the 
mines. The rough life suited his frame of mind, per- 
verted from its natural channel by the overwhelm- 
ing force of the wave of trouble that had swept over 
him ; and the hard labor was the best panacea for 
his tortured brain. 

Gradually he acquired, in some measure, the 
uncultivated speech and ways of the majority of his 
co-workers; and, from forming an idle spectator to 
the progress of the games, he became a reckless par- 
ticipant, forgetting, for the time being, his troubles 
in the excitement of the hour. One vice he escaped. 
He drank sparingly, the finer instincts of his nature 


— 96 — 


revolting from an intemperate use of stimulants. 

Something in the appearance of Miss Brannan, 
the teacher, had arrested his attention as he. passed 
her. It was, as Jake Peters had said, an unusual 
thing for him to notice a woman, except to avoid her; 
for the treachery of one whom he had believed the 
incarnation of all that was lovely had embittered his 
heart toward the whole sex, and he now bore the 
title of “the woman-hater.” It was something in 
Miss Brannan’s figure and carriage that had caught 
his eye, and it was with bitterness he acknowledged 
that that something was a resemblance to his false 
fiancee. She had Maud’s erect, finely proportioned 
figure, and her step was the same firm, somewhat 
dignified one; but there the likeness ended. A very 
different face was Miss Brannan’s from Maud Hazel- 
tine’s. Clear gray eyes, with a capacity for passion 
slumbering in their depths ; slightly irregular feat- 
ures, firm-set chin, and mouth presenting the com- 
bined characteristics of decision and womanly sweet- 
ness in the finely-curved lips; rich-brown hair waving 
back from an intellectual forehead, and coiled low in 
the back of her shapely neck, — instead of Maud’s 
azure orbs, small features as perfectly chiseled as 
those of a statue, and golden hair crowning her 
haughty head in a coronet of braids. 

“Bill” Maxley (as he was now universally styled) 


97 — 


did not discover all the peculiarities of Miss Bran- 
nan’s physiognomy in the one cursory glance that he 
bestowed upon her on the day that he received Jake 
Peter’s kindly admonition. It was the result of sun- 
dry observations in days following, for he found him- 
self almost unconsciously scanning the school-teacher 
at every opportunity, afterward taking himself to task 
for a fool im noticing a member of the sex he hated. 

“ False as the rest, probably,” he soliloquized. 
“ The less a man has to do with them, the better.” 

Miss Brannan, in her turn, not being above the 
usual predisposition of young ladies for handsome 
young men, had not failed to observe the tall, broad- 
shouldered, dark-eyed and moustached miner, who 
strode along the streets with such a proud air, and 
bore so unmistakably the impress of finer breeding 
than was the portion of most of his class. There 
was something mysterious about this dark-browed 
fellow. She was sure he had a history, and it was a 
sad one, for the stamp of melancholy was plainly 
engraved upon his face. After a while, she heard 
that he was a “ woman-hater,” and that inflamed her 
desire to know something of his life ; but Claribel 
Brannan was as proud as Bill Maxley in her way, and 
she never by glance or motion revealed to him the 
fact that she was more than ordinarily interested in 
him. At last. Fate, in the guise of an unruly horse. 


-98- 


brought about an interview between the “ woman- 
hater” and the “ schoolma’am.” 

Maxley was returning, one day, from his work 
on the eight-hour shift, swinging in his hand the 
lunch-pail that is the miner’s badge, when he saw 
Miss Brannan ahead, standing beside the horse which 
she was wont to ride about the camp, evidently 
endeavoring to arrange something about the saddle, 
while the animal frustrated her attempts with his 
restless motions. Another glance showed him that 
the saddle girth had slipped badly over to one side, 
whereupon his chivalric instincts prompted him to 
hasten to her relief. She turned her head as she 
heard his hasty footsteps, and stood quietly holding 
the horse by the bridle until he came up. 

”0, sir,” said she, with a smile, “ I shall be so 
much obliged if you will help me out of this predica- 
ment. My saddle has turned, and Don won’t let me 
fix it.” 

“ I will have it all right in a minute,” said Max- 
ley, as he unloosed the cinch, and squared the saddle 
upon the horse’s back. “How did this get so mis- 
placed? Have you been thrown?” looking some- 
what anxiously to see if Miss Brannan bore any 
marks of a fall. 

“No, but I came very near it. Don shied at a 
big rattlesnake he saw beside the road, and I nearly 


— 99 — 


went off. His sudden start made the saddle slip, — 
it wasn't on very tight, for I saddled him to-day, — and 
I just let myself down quietly, and tried to arrange 
it; but Don’s fright made him so nervous that he 
wouldn’t stand still. He is usually very gentle.” 

“You say you saw a rattlesnake? Where was 
it ? ” looking keenly around on either side of the path. 

“ It ran into that clump of bushes,” indicating a 
bunch of greasewood that grew near by. 

“ It must be killed,” said Bill, hastily. “ There, 
everything is all right now. Shall I help you to 
mount? ” 

“ Not just now, if you are going to kill that snake. 
Would it not be better to let it go? You know that 
it is dangerous to attack one when thus concealed. 
Consider how hazardous it is,” said Miss Brannan, 
timidly, lifting her earnest eyes to Maxley’s face. 

“Oh, there is no danger; you need not be 
alarmed.” Spite of himself. Bill felt pleased at her 
solicitude. But, pooh! what did she care whether he, 
a strange miner, were bitten or not? It was probably 
all put on. “ You had better allow me to place you 
in the saddle. His majesty may get away if I delay 
longer.” 

“No, I shall not go yet,” and Miss Brannan’s 
lips settled together firmly. “ If you are determined 
to make the attack, I shall watch the battle.” 


— lOO — 


“ Very well, as you please.” 

Maxley armed himself with a stout stick, and 
advanced to the clump of bushes that was supposed 
to secrete the venomous reptile. Striking them a 
blow, a sharp, thrilling rattle was heard, and the tip 
of the snake’s tail was seen rapidly vibrating in the 
air, thus giving Maxley some idea where to direct his 
blows. Fast and thick they fell for a moment, then 
the foe was vanquished, and Maxley raised the limp 
body on the stick, and threw it clear of the bushes. 
A little flushed, he turned to the spot where he had 
left Miss Brannan standing holding her horse. Miss 
Brannan was leaning upon the animal’s neck, white 
as death. 

“ O, sir,” she exclaimed, ” how frightened I was 
when the horrible thing made the lunge at you ! It 
very nearly struck your hand.” 

And she trembled visibly with excitement. Max- 
ley laughed rather nervously as he saw how alarmed 
she had been for him. 

“ That’s nothing. I’ve killed many another of 
his race, and come nearer to being bitten than that.” 

“Well, I am greatly obliged to you for your 
assistance,” said Miss Brannan, making a violent 
effort for composure. “ I will now ask you to give 
me a mount.” 

Maxley stooped, and offered his hand and shoul- 


lOI — 


der, which she barely touched, bounding lightly to 
her place. He touched his hat, and was about to 
turn away, but Miss Brannan, leaning forward, held 
out her hand with a smile, and he could not do less 
than accept the proffered civility. The touch of her 
soft palm sent a curious thrill over him. 

“ Good-bye,” said he, in response to her cordial 
“ good-afternoon.” 

She turned her horse’s head in the direction 
from which she had come, and cantered back to the 
camp, Bill’s eyes following her erect, shapely figure, 
and noting the grace of her horsemanship. He saun- 
tered up to the lifeless reptile, and severed the rattles 
from its body (there were thirteen of them), then he 
pursued his way homeward. Like many of the 
miners, he owned a rough cabin of one room which 
constituted his home, — a plain and lonely one. But 
then he was not in it much, except to sleep. It was 
always lively on the street and in the saloons ; plenty 
of men lounging about at any hour of the day or 
night. An unwonted feeling of shame at the down- 
ward course he was treading possessed him as he sat 
in the doorway of his shanty smoking, after reaching 
home; and, for once, he did not go up street that 
evening, but passed the hours in solitude, alternately 
reading the papers and staring into vacancy — thinking. 
He recalled the earnestness with which the school- 


— 102 


teacher had besought him to run no risks, the trepi- 
dation she had evinced at his narrow escape from the 
reptile’s fangs, the sweet smile and friendly look from 
her eyes when she bade him good-bye, the touch of 
her soft hand in his hardened palm ; and it occurred 
to him that perhaps he had been wrong in judging 
all womankind alike, that it was possible that Miss 
Brannan might be as true and honest as she seemed. 
But then, Maud Hazeltine’s manner had been even 
more calculated to inspire one with confidence than 
Miss Brannan’s, as her face was more bewitchingly 
beautiful. And what was she, underneath her false 
mask, but a cold, calculating, ambitious trifler with 
the most sacred emotions of a man’s heart, valuing a 
high position in society more than his ardent, abid- 
ing love ? As his wife, she would have known no 
reasonable want. He could not have lavished upon 
her all the luxuries commanded by Theophilus Cam- 
pernon. Theophilus Campernon ! that gouty, bald- 
headed old roue! Filled with disgust. Bill Maxley 
knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and went to bed. 

Miss Brannan stood in the doorway of the shanty 
which served the purpose of a school-house, and 
paused for a moment to look about her before ringing 
the bell to call in her flock from their afternoon 
recess. The sun poured down its scorching rays un- 
obstructed by shade of any kind, and the barren slope 


— 103 — 


upon which the school-house was situated, with the 
valley and rugged mountains opposite lay bathed in 
a flood of light. 

Shading her eyes from the glare with one hand, 
she rang the bell, and the scholars came trooping in 
and seated themselves on the rude benches. Just as 
she was turning away from the door, a man’s figure 
appeared and a suave voice addressed her. 

“ Pardon me, madam, but I understand that vis- 
itors are permitted here. Will you allow me to come 
in for a few moments?” 

He had his hat in his hand, and looked at the 
teacher with marked politeness, but Miss Brannan 
was not pleased with his appearance for all that, and 
felt reluctant to grant his request. But it was true 
that visitors were allowed, and, after a slight hesita- 
tion, she bade him enter, and placed a chair at his 
disposal. With profuse thanks, the stranger accepted 
the proffered seat, placed his hat on the floor, crossed 
one of his immaculately clad limbs over the other, 
and assumed an air of benevolent interest as he looked 
around at the wondering faces of the pupils. Miss 
Brannan proceeded with the customary routine of 
lessons, and, for a time, everything went on as usual, 
until she became conscious that the eyes of the visitor 
were almost constantly bent upon her, following her 
every movement about the room. This was not at 


— 104 — 


all agreeable, and ere long her heightened color and 
crested head evinced the displeasure she felt. The 
“ few moments ” lengthened into an hour, and when, 
at four o’clock, she dismissed her school, the intruder 
was still there. 

“ Permit me to offer you my card ” said he, in 
insinuating tones 

Miss Brannan looked at the bit of paste-board, 
but did not touch it, whereupon he laid it conspicu- 
ously on the table beside which he sat. 

“ I have seen you at a church. Miss Brannan,’ 
(so he knew her name), “ and had the pleasure of lis- 
tening to your divine voice.” 

Miss Brannan was the leading soprano of the lit- 
tle choir that gathered on Sunday in the adobe church. 
She particularly disliked such a broad compliment, 
and she thought it about time for Mr. Rupert Mon- 
manier to take his departure. Hoping to accelerate 
that event, she said something about ” having to look 
over some exercises,” and sat down at a little distance 
to go through her task. Mr. Monmanier did not 
budge, but sat staring her persistently in the face. 
Unable to endure this imperimetitsurvez//ancelonger, 
Miss Brannan gathered up her papers, and put on her 
hat. Observing preparations for departure, Mr. Mon- 
manier, hat in hand, stepped outside the door, and 
awaited her egress. 


— 105 — 


“ Good-day, sir,” said she, somewhat sharply, 
after locking the door, walking rapidly away. 

But she was not rid of him yet. He kept by her 
side, saying he was going in that direction, and an- 
noyed her excessively with an increasing familiarity, 
which she met with a haughty silence. In sheer des- 
peration, she turned her course toward the principal 
streets rather than to her boarding-place, and entered 
a dry-goods store, there ridding herself of her unwel- 
come companion, who gave a parting flourish, and 
proceeded on down the street. At the tea-table that 
night Miss Brannan related her adventure of the 
afternoon, and described the bold intruder. 

” Oh, I know who he is,” suddenly exclaimed 
Mr. Taylor, the head of the family. ” He ’s the man 
from New York who lately bought the Silver-Spray 
mine. I heard he was a fast chap. Broke the bank 
at the Crescent Saloon the other night. Well, he ’d 
better not try any of his shines on you. He ’ll And 
that a mining camp is the worst place in the world 
to insult a woman. There ’d be a thousand men after 
him in no time if it was known that he troubled you 
or any other decent woman.” 

“ I remember now,” said Mrs. Taylor, “ that I 
saw him staring at you in church last Sunday.” 

“ Yes, he said he had the pleasure of hearing my 
divine voice there,” replied Miss Brannan, scornfully. 


io6 — 


“ Well, he did pile it ou pretty thick for a first 
acquaintance, and a scraped one at that,” said Mr. 
Taylor. “Just let me know if he bothers you again.” 

A day or two later, after school was dismissed. 
Miss Bran nan went around to the postoffice on her 
way home, and found as usual a long file of men in 
front of the delivery window, and stretching out into 
the street. They courteously made room for her to 
pass, and she stepped up to the ladies’ window, and 
called for her mail. The previous day was Sunday, 
and, as the office was open only one hour on that day, 
she had failed to get her mail, and now there was an 
unusually large one. With three or four letters and 
several bunches of papers in her hands, beside some 
small parcels she had purchased on the way down 
street, she started for home. Arriving nearly at her 
destination, she paused a moment to look over her 
collection, and made the discovery that one letter was 
missing. She must have dropped it on the way, and 
she turned back to seek for it, but the handsome 
woman-hater was coming toward her, holding a letter 
in his hand, which proved to be the lost one. 

“ I observed this letter lying in the street,” said 
Maxley, as he placed it in her hand, “ and read the 
address, ‘ Miss Claribel Brannan.’ As I knew that to 
be you, I determined to restore the letter to its owner, 
and hastened after you.” 


— 107 — 


“ Many thanks, sir. I should have felt sorry to 
have lost it, for it is from a very dear friend.” 

“Ah!” 

And Maxley gave Miss Brannan a scrutinizing 
look which somehow brought the color in rosy flushes 
to her face, thus completing the mistaken impression 
in regard to the missive that Maxley had received 
from her last words, coupled with the bold, masculine 
superscription that had attracted his attention. At 
this juncture, Mr. Taylor came whistling around the 
corner. 

“ Hollo, Maxley,” he called out, heartily. “Where 
do you keep yourself now-a-days? Haven’t seen 
you for an age. Come in, boy, and sit a while.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Taylor, but I guess I can’t stop 
to-night. It ’s about supper-time.” 

“ Nonsense, come in and eat supper with us. 
Come now, no more excuses. It ’s a good while since 
I ’ve had a talk with you, and I don’t mean to let you 
go yet.” 

Finding it useless to attempt further remon- 
strance, Maxley succumbed to the force of circum- 
stances, and followed his genial host into the house 
where Miss Brannan had already disappeared. 

She soon entered the cozy little room where they 
were all sitting, looking very sweet and attractive in 
a neat, prettily flowered cambric, with cherry ribbons 


— io8 — 


at her throat, and nestling against her luxuriant dark 
hair. A face and figure that would grace the richest 
apparel, yet so fresh and “ homey ” in this plain attire 
that she called to Maxley’s mind all sorts of vague 
dreams of domestic bliss, unmarred by the superficial- 
ities of fashionable life. He began to think that the 
writer of that letter was a very fortunate fellow. 

Miss Brannan pos,sessed courage, fortitude, and 
an indifference to the opinions of Mrs. Grundy, or she 
would not be out here on the frontier teaching school 
for a livelihood; and she was true to her lover, as the 
burning blush a few moments ago testified. 

Have you ever been introduced to Miss Bran 
nan ? ” asked Mr. Taylor. 

“No, not formally.” 

A presentation followed, and shortly after Mrs. 
Taylor called them out to supper. A variety of sub- 
jects were discussed, and then the conversation turned 
on the new minister. 

“ I think his sermon a week ago last Sunday was 
one of the finest I ever heard. Did you not like it? ” 
remarked Miss Brannan, turning to Maxley, who sat 
at her left hand. 

“ I— really — I was not present. I seldom attend 
church,” responded Maxley, with embarrassment. 

“ Oh, is that so ? I really think you do not know 
what you miss. It is so much better to have Sunday 


— 109 — 


different from other days. Surely one sees enough of 
sin here during the week to get as far away from it 
as possible on the Sabbath. And it is a faint reminder 
of home, although everything is very rude and com- 
monplace here compared with the magnificent ap- 
pointments of Eastern churches, — the Word of God 
is the same.” 

Maxley started and grew pale as she mentioned 
home, and replied in a low tone, — 

“I don’t doubt but you are right. We miners 
fall into rough, careless ways after knocking around 
a while in uncivilized parts of the country.” 

“Then you want some one to set you right 
again,” smiled Miss Brannan, as she folded her napkin, 
and they rose from the table. 

Maxley’s heart gave a sudden bound at her last 
remark, with its sweet, smiling look. 

If only his life were not irremediably wrecked, 
after all ! If he might trust and love again, and cast 
aside the baleful habits that were dragging him down 
to ruin ! But he must not forget that this woman, 
who so strangely occupied his thoughts, and who was 
breaking down the barriers of reserve behind which 
he had entrenched himself, was not free to win. 

After Maxley had departed, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor 
declared to Claribel that they were never so delighted 


— no — 


to hear her say anything as they were when she 
asked Maxley about the sermon. 

“ Maxley ’s a fine fellow,” said Mr. Taylor, “ and 
I always felt uncommonl5" interested in him. I want 
to save him from going to ruin if I can. It is rumored 
that he was once very much attached to a beautiful 
girl, who went back on him for an old millionaire, 
and it made another man of him. He ’s got folks 
somewhere, I know, by the way he changed color 
when you spoke of home.” 

“I do believe you ’ll get him out to church yet,” 
said motherly Mrs. Taylor. “You ’ve made an im- 
pression on him, for he won’t usually look at a woman, 
and he ’ll value your good opinion. If you work right 
I believe you ’ll get him to lead a different life.” 

Claribel thought she would try. She was more 
interested in this proud-faced miner than she cared 
for even her good friends, the Taylors, to know. 

The next Sunday but one Bill Maxley did attend 
church. Claribel, in company with some friends, 
passed him on Saturday evening, and told him that 
she was on her way to choir rehearsal. The next 
morning, when she lifted her head after the opening 
prayer, and glanced aimlessly over the congregation, 
she gave a little start as she beheld Maxley’s hand- 
some face in one of the rows of chairs (for pews were 
as yet a thing unknown at Mineral Hill). He was 


— Ill 


looking at her, and their eyes met. The pleased 
expression in hers showed him that she was gratified 
at his presence ; and, when the choir arose to sing, 
and Miss Brannan’s pure, powerful soprano soared 
above all others, he felt amply repaid for any sacri- 
fice that he might have made in conforming to her 
desires. Mr. Rupert Monmanier was also a member 
of the congregation, and he kept his bold eyes, as 
usual, pertinaciously fixed on Miss Brannan’s coun- 
tenance. She was continually stumbling upon him 
at all sorts of odd corners, until it became evident 
that these unexpected rencontres were pre-arranged 
by him. He became a perfect bug-bear to her, yet 
had not so far violated the rules of decorum as to 
justify her in making any decided complaint against 
him. 

One Sunday evening Mr. Taylor motioned to 
Bill Maxley across the church, as the people were 
going out (for Maxley was now a regular attendant), 
and, meeting him near the door, said, — 

“ See here, Maxley, I want you to take my place, 
and beau the schoolma’am home. I’m called in 
another direction.” 

Maxley quietly acquiesced in the arrangement, 
and offered his arm to Miss Brannan, who looked 
considerably astonished at this sudden change of 
escorts. Mr. Taylor went off chuckling to himself. 


— 1 12 


The church was half a mile from his house, and there 
would be quite a favorable opportunity for one of 
those tete-a-tetes that serve so well to draw congenial 
people nearer together. After this, whenever Mrs. 
Taylor accompanied her hu.sband to evening meeting, 
as she generally did, it became in order for Mr. Max- 
ley to escort Miss Brannan home. In these quiet 
interviews Maxley from time to time revealed bits of 
his past history, and finally was led on to speak of 
the home he had left, of the mother and sister who 
knew not his whereabouts. He said little about the 
faithless Maud, but from his scanty revelations Clari- 
bel could guess the rest, and from the depths of her 
heart she pitied him, and thought what a priceless 
treasure his love must be. Bach enjoyed the other’s 
company, still Maxley believed Claribel to be prom- 
ised to another man, and she, knowing how passion- 
ately he had loved the fair one in the East, never 
placed any but a friendly construction on his atten- 
tions to her. 

Darkness was gathering fast over Mineral Hill 
one evening when Miss Brannan was hurrying home 
from a visit to a sick pupil who lived on the outskirts 
of the camp. She disliked being out alone after 
dark, and was congratulating herself on being over 
the worst of the route, when footsteps suddenly came 
up behind her, and before she could turn around she 


was seized in a powerful embrace, and hot kisses 
were pressed upon her burning cheeks. 

“ So, I have you now, my beauty. Come, give 
me one on that lovely mouth. I’ve but a taste yet.” 

It was Rupert Monmanier’s hated voice. Clari- 
bel struggled desperately to break away from his 
strong arms, and gave a sharp cry of terror. The 
villain uttered a suppressed oath, and placed one 
hand firmly over her mouth to prevent further out- 
cry. That one agonized shriek reached the ears of 
Bill Maxley, who was sitting in his cabin not far 
distant. The next instant he was out in the street, 
looking excitedly for the person in distress who had 
uttered it. Through the dim light he saw a woman 
struggling in the arms of a man, and a dozen miners 
rushing from their shanties to see what was going on. 
Maxley was the first to reach the spot. With un- 
bounded amazement and wrath, he recognized in the 
parties the school-teacher, Miss Brannan, and that 
New York fop, Monmanier. 

“ Tet go that lady, sir,” thundered he, “instantly, 
or, by heaven. I’ll shoot you in your tracks.” 

“You will, hey? I reckon two can play at that 
game.” 

And Monmanier, releasing Claribel, put his right 
hand in the breast of his coat. Maxley as rapidly 
drew his pistol, and the miners, who came up just 


then, observing the critical aspect of affairs, and 
believing that shots would be exchanged before any 
one could interfere, deemed it expedient to keep out 
of the range of bullets. But Maxley had no inten- 
tion of firing at Monmanier, since he had set Miss 
Brannan at liberty, unless compelled to do so in self- 
defense. Monmanier’s blood was up, and he meant 
to give that lordly, meddlesome fellow a good dose 
of cold lead. He raised his pistol, — quicker than a 
flash, Claribel threw herself between him and Max- 
ley, crying,— 

“ For God’s sake, do not shoot. You shall not 
kill him.” 

“Oh, you are going to interfere, are you? I’ll 
be obliged if you’ll just step out of the way a 
minute.” 

“ Never ! If you fire, the bullet shall go through 
my body before it reaches him.” 

And she drew herself unflinchingly to her utmost 
height, and looked Monmanier steadily in the eye. 
Maxley made a move to place her gently to one side, 
but she resisted it. 

“ Oh, perhaps he’s a lover of yours. I didn’t 
think of that,” sneered Monmanier; “ and that’s the 
reason you are so opposed to my advances.” 

“Silence, you contemptible scoundrel!” cried 
Maxley. 


15 — 


Monmanier found himself powerless to resent 
the epithet, the miners having taken advantage of 
the conversation to creep up behind him, pinion his 
arms, and wrest the revolver from his hands. 

“See here, my hearty,” said Jake Peters, “don’t 
you go for to try no more o’ your blasted tricks. 
’Ta’n’t no use. We’ve got the upper ban’s o’ ye, an’ 
ye mout as well give in fust as last.” 

“ Jes’ so, pard,” chimed in Joe Walker, “ ef this 
here low-lived ’pology for a man, that’s meaner’n a 
skunk an’ a cayote to boot, don’t wish he’d never sot 
eyes on this here camp afore sun-up to-morrer mornin’ 
I’m mistooken. Gentlemen, you kin give out word 
that there’ll be a trial in jist one hour down to Racer 
Jim’s barn. Lite out, now, an’ tell the boys.” 

“All right,” came in a chorus from the burly 
miners’ throats. 

And they sped hither and yon over the camp, 
spreading the news that a lady had been assaulted, 
and the perpetrator of the deed was to be tried by 
Judge Lynch that night. Like wild-fire the news 
swept through the streets, and hundreds of excited 
men were soon gathered at the point designated. 

Uncouth though they were, it was a part of their 
rough miner’s code never to allow an insult to a 
woman to pass unpunished. They might. form low 
associations with the members of the demi monde who 


— ii6 — 


followed up the mining camps, but a lady could not 
be treated with more courtesy if she were a queen. 
The fine-looking, gentle-mannered school-teacher was 
well known and greatly admired, and it looked as 
though it would go hard with her persecutor. Many 
insisted on “ stringing up ” Monmanier before day- 
break, but the less excitable portion of the throng 
did not favor bloodshed, but advocated his ejectment 
from the camp. This measure was finally agreed 
upon, and the cowering prisoner was ordered to 
“ shake the dust of Mineral Hill from his feet within 
twenty-four hours, if he valued his life.” 

It is needless to say that Mr. Rupert Monmanier 
settled up his business affairs right speedily, and on 
the morrow turned his back forever on the scene of 
his discomfiture. 

As the miners led Monmanier away to his trial, 
Maxley fairly shook with agitation as he gazed upon 
Miss Brannan, so haughtily erect but a moment ago, 
now drooping and flushing, with eyes seeking the 
ground. 

“ My darling !” ejaculated he; “I must say it! 
How noble, how fearlessly brave in you to interpose 
your precious person between me and possible death ! 
I shall never forget that revelation of the grandeur 
of your nature, never again say there is no such 
thing as a thoroughly good woman. In the years to 


come, when you are a happy wife, wherever I may 
be, I shall reverence your memory. May the fortu- 
nate man who has won your affection guard and 
cherish it, as I would if it were in my possession. 
God bless you, noblest of women.” 

His voice trembled, and his eyes grew suspi- 
ciously moist. Claribel started, and averted her face 
to hide her confusion, when Maxley began to speak ; 
but, as he continued, she raised her head and looked 
at him in amazement. 

“ What can you mean,” she queried as he ceased, 
“by you references to some other man ? You speak 
as if I were engaged, but I am not.” 

“ You are not ! ” exclaimed Maxley. “ Can that 
be true ? Did not you imply as much when I returned 
to you your lost letter? ” impetuously. 

“ Why, no, I did not. I think I stated that the 
letter was from a very dear friend, my old chum at 
school.” 

“ But the masculine handwriting? ” 

“ Oh, Lu has a habit of giving her letters to her 
husband to address. He is an editor, and writes a 
great deal at home.” 

“ What a great mistake I have made ! Is it too 
late to rectify it ? ” He came closer, and took both 
her hands in his. “ Would it be possible for you to 
love me, my darling? ” 


— iiS — 


Anxiously he awaited her answer. A moment’s 
silence, and then she whispered, — 

“Not only possible, but I already love you 
dearly.” 

The hands he grasped were quickly drawn about 
his neck, and he held her in a close embrace, his 
heart too full for utterance. 

After a while they became conscious that they 
were standing in the middle of the street, that dark- 
ness had fallen close around them, and that Mr. and 
Mrs. Taylor would be feeling anxious at Miss Bran- 
nan’s prolonged absence. So they started off arm-in- 
arm for Mr. Taylor’s, exchanging as they went bliss- 
ful lovers’ confidences. 

“You have turned me from the despicable course 
that I was pursuing,” said Will. “I have not entered 
a gambling house for three weeks, and, by God’s 
help, I never will again. I wdll strive henceforth to 
be worthy of my cherished wife. With you for my 
guiding-star, I surely can not fail.” 

Nor would he. Claribel Brannan’s strong, well- 
poised nature was just the one to call forth all the 
good there was in Will Maxley, and she would never 
fail him. In seasons of prosperity and happiness, 
she would be the chief of all his blessings, in days of 
trial and suffering she would be his good angel. Bet- 
ter, far, for Will Maxley that his first love, Maud 


19 — 


Hazeltine, deserted him. In Claribel Brannan he 
found a wife immeasurably her superior. The Tay- 
lors were well pleased with the turn of affairs, having 
for some time had the idea that “ it would be a good 
thing for Bel and Will to make a match.” 

When, two months later. Will sold a mine for 
twenty thousand dollars, there seemed no need of 
delaying their union, as that sum appeared as amply 
sufficient for comfort to Claribel as ten times the 
amount did to Maud Hazeltine. A few weeks after- 
ward, the daily stage was besieged by a crowd of well- 
wishers, come to see ” Bill Maxley ” and his bride oft 
on their wedding trip. 

Jake Peters and Joe Walker were there, their 
faces beaming with approbation. “ Who’d a thought 
it?” commented one of the bystanders; ‘‘that that 
air high-steppin’ feller as would n’t so much as look 
crostways at a woman would up and git hitched afore 
the year was out ? ” 

“All aboard ! ” shouted the driver, mounting the 
box, and cracking his long whip. A plunge of the 
horses, a flourishing of bandanas in the air, three 
hearty cheers for the “ woman-hater ” and the “school- 
marm,” and the lumbering old coach whirled around 
the corner, bound for the nearest railway station. 

The sun was just dipping below the western hor- 
rizon, casting a mellow light over the autumnal-hued 


20 


foliage and the pretty residences of that most beauti- 
ful of Boston suburbs, Rayville. A hack came 
rumbling down one of the broad streets, and drew 
up before a commodious mansion, of tasteful architect- 
ural design, surrounded by a well kept lawn, ornament- 
ed with neat flower-beds, a fountain splashing in the 
centre. The gayly tinted blossoms of summer had 
yielded to the blighting touch of an early frost, but 
chrysanthemums, everlastings, and other autumn 
flowers were yet in bloom. A sweet-faced girl looked 
out of one of the windows as the carriage stopped 
before the front gate. 

“Mother,” she called; “some one has come. 
There is a hack at the gate. Who can it be? ” 

“ I don’t know I’m sure,” said Mrs. Maxley, a 
rather sad-faced woman of forty-flve, whose smooth 
bands of black hair were thickly threaded with silver. 

A tall gentleman alighted, and turned to assist 
a closely veiled lady from the carriage. Trunks and 
boxes were unstrapped by the driver, and appearances 
indicated that, whoever the travelers were, they had 
come to stay. The gentleman gave his arm to his 
companion, and they walked up the graveled path. 

“O, mother,” gasped the girl; “it is, it is Will! 
O, mother. Will has come back!” and the delighted 
girl flew to the hall door, and threw it open wide as 
the pair ascended the piazza steps. Mrs. Maxley 


— I2I 


raised her eyes to heaven in a silent prayer of thanks- 
giving for the restoration of her only son, and fol- 
lowed close upon her daughter’s footsteps. 

“ Mother ! ” said Will Maxley, catching sight of 
her matronly face ere she reached the door; “can you 
forgive and welcome back the wanderer? ” 

“ My boy ! ’’ was the brief but tender answer, and 
she was folded in her son’s strong arms. 

Annie gave her brother a vigorous hug and a 
shower of kisses ; then Maxley turned with pride to 
the young lady who had looked upon this family 
reunion with moistened eyes, and taking her by the 
hand, he led her to his mother. 

“ Mother,’’ said he, “ I have brought you a new 
daughter. Love her for my sake, for she has saved 
me from ruin. 

“ Bless her for that,’’ said Mrs. Maxley fervently, 
as she received Claribel in a warm embrace, “ but I 
know I shall love her for her own sake.” 

“ This is Annie, of whom I have told you/’ con- 
tinued Will. “ Annie, this is your sister Bel.” 

“ I am delighted,” cried Annie, “ to think you 
have brought home a wife ! Dear Bel— you will let 
me call you so, won’t you? — you don’t know how 
lonely we have been.” 

“ But you shan’t be so any longer,” said Will, as 
they entered a cozy parlor. “ I am going to settle 


22 — 


down for life in the East. It is my wife’s birthplace 
as well as mine, and here we will stay.” 

Happiness reigned again in the long-sad Maxley 
home. Mrs. Will created quite a sensation in the 
Rayville world, Mrs. Theophilis Campernon even 
casting decidedly jealous eyes on her discarded lover’s 
stately wife ; for she had long since become disgusted 
with her captious, carnal-minded lord, and neither 
wealth nor jewels could bring contentment to her 
unhappy heart. 

The motherless bride’s cup of happiness was 
filled to overflowing with the affection of her new- 
found parent and sister. And Will Maxley never 
ceased to bless the day on which he gazed with crit- 
ical eyes, after the “ school-ma’am of Mineral Hill.” 



THE TRIALS OF JONATHAN MOLLIFY. 



ONATHAN MOLLIFY was in despair. He was 


CJ ready to take an affidavit that no more hope- 
lessly miserable specimen of the genus homo existed 
than he, on this beautiful Monday morning, Anno 
Domini 2010, in that rarest of favored countries,— the 
Golden State. This lugubrious condition of affairs 
was nothing new ; had it been, he might have plucked 
up courage and hoped for brighter days in future. 
But, years ago, he had given up all faith in such 
well-worn adages as “ The darkest cloud has a silver 
lining “ Never was so long a night but was van- 
quished by the light,” et coetera. Stuff and nonsense ! 
The light was a long time coming, in his case, and 
he didn’t see where it was coming from, unless the 
gates of a brighter world than this mundane sphere 
should mercifully open before him. It was all on 
account of Maria, this darkness and chaos and misery, 
and as for any lifting of the cloud in that direction, 
one might as well look for a gold mine in the bottom 
of Salt Lake. Maria had the upper hand, and she 
held the reins taut and firm. They had been in her 


{123) 


— 124 — 


possession —how long ? It seemed an eternity, but 
it could not be but a half-dozen years or so, reckon- 
ing by little Jonathan, who was a babe in the cradle 
when the movement was crowned with success. 

“ Movement ?” you repeat. Why,yes,the woman’s 
right’s movement now in full swing from shore to 
shore of this glorious republic, and sweeping Maria 
Mollify along with it, well-nigh to the annihilation 
of her true and trusty spouse, Jonathan. Here it 
was Monday morning, and Maria, despite her long 
residence on the Pacific Coast, positively would not 
forget the principle inculcated in her youth, among 
the far-famed Yankees, that, whate’er betide, Monday 
is wash-day. Yea, though the skies fall, the week’s 
washing must be done, and Monday is the appointed 
time. Jonathan was not sensible of any decided 
objection to this programme, provided Maria would 
interview the tub and wash-board herself, but, alas ! 
this was not the order of the day in the new dispen- 
sation. Maria was up and away, bright and early, 
on official business connected with the annual con- 
vention of the Grand Union Female Association of 
liberty and Equality, which was announced to begin 
at nine A. m. of this very day, continuing through 
the week; and Jonathan could still hear her metallic 
voice calling from the buggy, as she gave the dejected 
steed a cut of the whip, and rattled out of the yard. 


— 125 — 

“ Hurry up, now, and get that wash out a dryin’ 
in some kind of season. And don’t let Jeremiah get 
into mischief. And remember, I shall be home to 
dinner at twelve o’clock, sharp ! ” 

Shades of Erebus ! what a change in that 
woman’s voice since those foolish days, ten years ago, 
when they two went “ sparking” down by the river 
bank, where the violets grew the thickest, and the 
birds caroled the sweetest, as if in sympathy with the 
lovers who strolled through their shady retreats. 
Foolish days! yet Jonathan liked to recall them. But 
for the memory of them, he sometimes feared he 
would throw off the galling yoke, and launch into 
the sea of eternity. 

Who could have foreseen such a contingency as 
this? who realized the startling changes, arising from 
progressive times, which had metamorphosed sweet 
Maria Moulton into the present terrible Maria Mol- 
lify ? Not Jonathan Mollify, or never would he have 
slipped his neck into the noose matrimonial, — that 
was as certain as tradesmen’s bills at New Year’s. 
But there was no disputing the fact, — women were 
now voters, office-holders, and proprietors generally ; 
and perhaps it was a natural sequence of centuries 
of —so-called — oppression that they carried their new 
dignities and responsibilities in a very high-handed 
manner, assuming the authority in domestic matters 


— 126- 


as well as the lion’s share in political affairs. Any- 
how Maria Mollify was not going to be outdone by 
any one else, either at home or abroad. She gloried 
in the opportunity to display abilities that lay dor- 
mant and unrecognized prior to that grand and mem- 
orable day when the emancipation of the female sex 
w^as legally effected. Ah, well-a-day ! it had been 
rough sailing for the discomfited masculines ever 
since, especially for those who, like himself, were so 
unfortunate as to be bound hard and fast by the ties 
of wedlock, to a bright and shining star, a leader 
invincible and undaunted, in the new dominion. 
Maria’s services were constantly in demand, and her 
time was consequently too valuable to be spent in 
obscurity at home. Jonathan being of less note and 
usefulness in the political world, must render himself 
of service at the hearthstone. This Maria thought 
eminently proper and consistent. It was, therefore, 
Jonathan who washed the dishes, cooked the meals — 
on time, too, or he rued his tardiness — tended the 
babies, and otherwise kept oiled and in motion the 
machinery of the household. And this it was which 
had transformed him from a joyous bridegroom to a 
disheartened spiritless shadow of a man. 

“ Ouch ! ou-ou-ou ouch ! ” came a mighty howl 
from the kitchen. “ Papa ! papa ! I want my- papa ! 
ow-ow-ow-ow ! ” 


— 127 — 


“ Great goodness ! what’s that child into now ? 
Maria charged me to look after him, and I forgot all 
about it. Blast it all ! Hush up, Jerry, can’t you? 
Don’t make such an all-fired racket.” 

No more reveries for Jonathan Mollify. In the 
middle of the cluttered kitchen, his hands, face and 
dress besmeared with soft soap, the bucket from 
which it had been abstracted upset on the floor, stood 
the originator of the howl in question, a chubby, two- 
year old boy, and as disgusted a looking one as ever 
tampered with presumable sweets. 

” Me sit, papa,” wailed the child, with contorted 
face ; “ me dretful sit. Boo-hoo-o-o ! ” 

“ Where are you sick?” queried papa, drawing 
the disconsolate object toward a wash-basin, and pro- 
ceeded to remove the brown-hued covering from his 
lineaments. ” What business had you meddling with 
that soap-bucket, any how, I’d like to know ? Never 
saw such young ones ! It isn’t me they take after.” 

Here Jerry gave unmistakable indications of the 
locality of the alleged sickness, by saying : 

“ Mestummit, papa,mestummit. Boo-hoo-o-o-o!” 

“Jeremiah Mollify, didn’t you know any better 
than to eat that stuff? Well, this is a mess. No won- 
der you're sick ! That washing won’t get out in a 
hurry, I’m thinking, with you to attend to.” 


— 128 


“ Papa toss! Don’t, papa, be toss to Jerry. Jerry 

sit.” 

And the papa loved his little boy too well to hold 
out long in the face of genuine distress. 

But the sick one had to be coddled and com- 
forted and put to sleep, and all the time the sun was 
mounting higher in the heaven, and the clothes lay 
soaking in the tubs. The child’s troubles forgotten 
in slumber, Jonathan plunged into the work of the 
day in good earnest. It was not long, however, before 
another interruption came, in the shape of a dripping 
boy of six or seven, also the possessor of a strong pair 
of lungs, which he was using actively. 

” Now, what in creation’s the matter with you?” 
demanded the irate father. ” Where’ ve you been to 
get so wet? Speak this minute, Jonathan I How 
came you out of school ? ” 

“ I — I — went d-down t-to the fish-pond, ’long the 
other boys, ’t recess, an’ — an’ — Jake Hudson, he 
p-pushed me in.” 

” Well, Jake Hudson had better mind his own 
business, or I’ll give him something some day 
that he won’t like. And you can just keep away 
from that fish pond after this. If I ever hear of you 
going there again I’ll see about it ! Now I’ve got to 
stop and hunt up dry clothes for you, or else you’ll 
be down with sore throat or something, and then I’ll 


129 


never hear the last of it. Stop your bawling, and 
come along into the house.” 

Jonathan, junior, attended to, the advancing 
hand of the clock warned Mr. Mollify that the dinner 
hour was at hand, and no preparations had been 
made for the meal. 

“ Twelve o’clock sharp, Maria said,” he groaned ; 
“ and she’ll be here, sure as fate. Seems to me I 
hear the rattling of the wagon now, and there a’n’t 
any kindlin’ chopped nor nothin ready. Dear, dear, 
I ’m in for it.” 

“It” may be a mysterious word to the reader, but 
it was not to Jonathan Mollify. “ It ” in his vocabu- 
lary, was fraught with meaning, and that meaning 
was indissolubly connected with the lordly Maria’s 
tongue. Alive to the exigencies of the case, he trot- 
ted around endeavoring to make a good show of his 
morning’s work, — for well he knew it would undergo 
inspection from Argus eyes, — stringing part of the 
clothes conspicuously upon the line, scrabbling to- 
gether and out of sight some of the rubbish that lay 
in confusion about the kitchen floor; and, the per- 
spiration trickling down his face, was frantically chop- 
ping kindling when Maria Mollify drove briskly into 
the yard. An ominous look settled upon her counte- 
nance as she espied the flurried Jonathan, and 
conjectured that her orders had not been faithfully 


executed. Hitching the horse, and striding judicially 
into the kitchen, she surveyed the situation, and her 
displeasure found prompt utterance. 

“ What! no dinner ready, and the fire not even 
built ! Jonathan Mollify, you lazy, good-for-nothing 
man, what have you been doing all the forenoon ? 
Not more ’n half the wash out, either,” going to the 
door, and giving a contemptuous sniff at the clothes- 
line. “Well, if this is n’t enough to provoke a saint. 
Here I ’ve been hard at work ever since I opened my 
eyes this morning, and now I can’t get a bite of any- 
thing to eat. I do believe I shall faint away.” 

She sank into a chair with an air of profound 
exhaustion and pitiful martyrdom. Jonathan grabbed 
the vinegar bottle, and thrust it under her nostrils so 
vehemently that she recoiled with indignation. 

“ Don’t faint, Maria, mercy on us, don’t faint ! 
I ’ll have dinner ready in five minutes. It ’s been a 
dreadful unlucky day, Maria, and I could n’t do no 
better; I could n’t, positively.” 

What on earth was the matter with Maria’s nose ? 
It never used to loom up like that. Why, it was 
frightful. Was it going to keep on developing in 
like ratio in the years to come? Jonathan shrank 
from the contemplation of such a possibility. 

His conciliating tone did not produce the desired 


effect. Overcoming her momentary weakness, Maria 
rose in wrath unappeasable. 

“ Don’t you stand gawkin’ at me another minute, 
Jonathan Mollify I ’ve had tobear enough to-day at 
the convention without being annoyed at home. Hard 
as I ’ve worked, and as much money as I ’ve spent in 
the cause, if it a’n’t maddening to have another wo- 
man — a mere stranger, and of no account at all, except 
for her pretty face and load of jewelry — put above 
me, and made president of the day, I ’d like to know 
what is ? It ’s the first time since the society was or- 
ganized that anybody’s got ahead of me like that, 
and I just won’t stand it. Do you hustle round and 
make that fire, or I ’ll know the reason why.” 

What was the reason that Jonathan could not 
budge ? 

” Do you hear me? Get up and make the fire. 
It ’s late.” 

A sudden and astonishing spirit of bravery per- 
vaded the down-trodden man. He felt like a lion. 
He was n’t going to stand any more of Maria’s hen- 
pecking, — no, not one atom more. Not even though 
she had the audacity to shake him, and yell in his ear 
the same old refrain. “ Get up Jonathan ! get up and 
make the fire.” 

“ I ’ll be cussed if I will,” he roared. “ I ’ll never 
touch that blamed old stove again as long as I live. 


— 132 — 


I ’ve stood this sort of thing long enough. If you 
want a fire, build it yourself.” 

“ Oh, dear, dear, I never thought you’d speak so 
to me, Johnnie,” grieved a plaintive voice. 

“ You can ‘ Johnnie’ me as much as you like, but 
you can’t pull the wool over my eyes that way. I 
tell you I won’t do it. Build it yourself.” 

“ There, now, it ’s true, it ’s true what Sarah 
Snifkins told me, that I was a fool to get married, for 
my husband would domineer over me in less than 
six months, and make me do all the chores. I got 
mad at her, and said I knew my Johnnie never would 
do any such thing ; but now you have, you have, and 
I ’me going right straight h-home to my m-ma ! ” 

John Mollify sat up in bed, and stared at his 
weeping wife. 

“Why — what — where am I, anyhow? .Where’s 
Jonathan and Jeremiah, and the rest of the babies? 
Isn’t it 2010 ? ” 

” Two thousand ten, you crazy man ! Of course 
not. And what do you mean by talking about the 
babies? We havn’t any babies, Johnnie.” 

Maria blushed rosy red, and gazed in wide-eyed 
astonishment at her bewildered husband. 

” And you’re not President of the Grand Union 
Female Association of Liberty and Equality? Let 
me see your nose.” 


33 — 


Maria by this time had serious doubts as to the 
man’s sanity. She was beginning to feel afraid of 
him. Her nose, indeed. 

“ Cunning as ever,” he said, investigating the 
member. “ By George. Maria, I believe I must have 
been dreaming. I say, ducky, what were you crying 
about? Was I cross to you? Never mind, pet, you 
know I didn’t mean it. I was asleep. Kiss and make 
up.” 

“ O, Johnnie, how you did frighten me! I’m 
ever so glad it was only a dream. But you’ll have to 
get up, quick, for you’ve overslept — we’re half an 
hour late. It’s those oysters, I know. I told you 
last night not to eat too many.” 

John dressed himself hastily, an abstracted look 
still upon his face. 

“ What were you dreaming about, Johnnie? ” 

Mr. Mollify was intently hunting for his other 
boot. 

“ I say, Johnnie, what were you dreaming 
about ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing,” pulling the missing article out 
from under the bed ; “ that is, I don’t remember. I 
never can remember my dreams, can you? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sometimes,” asserted the curious wife. 
“ I wish you would try and remember this one. You 
acted so strangely.” 


— 134 — 


“ Don’t you want to go down to Norwell’s to-day, 
and buy that crushed-strawberry hat you admired so 
much yesterday?” 

An abrupt change of subject, but an agreeable 

one. 

“ O you darling, of course I do ! Can I really 
have it? ” 

“ Yes,” said John, “ I feel as if I’d like to make 
you a present. That’s because you are such a good 
little wife. You’d better go the first thing, before 
any one else gets it.” 

“You dear boy ! ” cried Maria delightedly. “ Be- 
cause I don’t really need it, you know. But it’s such 
a beauty.” 

John said nothing, but wrestled with the kitchen 
stove, congratulating himself that he was only six 
months married, and that his wife didn’t know the 
difference between nomination and election, or any 
other political terms. 



REUBEN HALE’S CHRISTMAS. 


^^^HRISTMAS! fol-de-rol! What’s Christmas 
more’n any other day? I’ve no money to 
spare for such foolish notions. I reckon what we 
have year in ’n year out ’s plenty good enough for 
any day, no matter ’f ’tis Christmas.” 

“But, Reuben, the children would be pleased.” 
Here the span of bays broke into a sharp trot urged 
by Farmer Hall’s relentless whip, and the old market 
wagon, devoid of springs or cushions, rattled and 
jolted so persistentl}^ that further conversation was 
rendered impossible. Good Mrs. Hall could do naught 
but cling desperately to the seat and gaze reproach- 
fully at her obdurate husband. Not another word 
spoke Reuben until they reached home, and then, 
ignoring the subject uppermost in her heart, he 
bluntly remarked : “ Reckon you’ll have to spin 
around lively to get supper in season,” offering no 
assistance as she cautiously descended from her lofty 
perch. 

The door opened quickly and a brace of blue- 
eyed, fair-haired girls of fourteen years of age ran 
(135) 


gaily to meet the tired woman, and took the pack- 
ages of tea and coffee, soap and candles, and other use- 
ful articles, from her arms. Her worn, sad face lighted 
up as she followed her twin daughters into the warm 
kitchen, there to behold the table nicely spread for 
supper and the bread she had expected to mold and 
bake, in beautifully browned loaves upon the cake- 
board. 

“ I did it myself, mother,” said Gertrude, delight- 
edly, ” and it’s just as nice ! I think it’s such fun to 
make bread.” 

Little Mrs. Hall made up her mind that if it were 
not ” fun ” to come home and find nothing to do till 
milking-time, it was something akin to it, and her 
voice was a little unsteady as she praised the girls for 
their thoughtfulness, and then inquired for Johnnie. 

“Johnnie? Oh, he’s in the stable, I guess. He 
stays in there every day, but I can’t think what he 
does it for.” 

“ Mamma,” interposed Katie, “ did you say any- 
thing to father about Christmas?” 

“Yes, dear, I did, but I’m afraid, girls, you will 
have to get along as usual. I couldn’t seem to make 
any impression on him.” 

“ Now, I call that too mean for anything,” sobbed 
Katie, “ when everybody else has such good times, 
too.” A heavy footstep, and the opening door 


— 137 — 


silenced the words upon her lips, and Johnnie, a 
sturdy boy of eleven, having made his appearance, 
the family sat down to supper. 

Reuben Hall would have been greatly astonished 
if anyone had told him he was not a good man. He 
considered himself an exemplary citizen, attended 
church oftener than some of his neighbors, worked 
hard and saw that his family always had plenty to eat 
and drink. It did not occur to him that, while pro- 
viding for their most pressing temporal wants, he 
withheld entirely too much for which their souls hun- 
gered. He did not realize that his patient wife would 
willingly have gone without food for a day for the 
sake of an endearing word that never came, or a fond 
look from the eyes that rested so indifferently upon 
her. He had no patience with the longings of his 
children for beautiful surroundings, pretty clothes, 
entertaining books, pictures, and the like. “ All fol- 
de-rol !” was his favorite comment, and the well-worn 
money pouch was never opened in response to 
entreaties for such pleasures. 

The mother had broached the subject of cele- 
brating Christmas while in the neighboring city, mark- 
eting with her husband, but, as has been perceived, 
without the desired result. Reuben Hall had a com- 
fortable bank account, and was making money on his 


ranch, but he had nothing to spare for Christmas 
“ foolery,” as he termed it. 

A week passed. One morning Mr. Hall made his 
appearance in the kitchen with a troubled coun- 
tenance. 

“ Mother,” he queried, “ can’t you fly around and 
catch the ten o’clock train for Bay City? ” 

“ Mercy on us, Reuben ! ” and down went a 
shower of milk on the astonished cat. Hastily set- 
ting down the pan, Mrs. Hall interrogated. “ What 
do you want me to go to Bay City for?” It was 
indeed a strange request for her husband to make, 
since he seldom thought it necessary for anyone but 
himself to leave home, with its duties. 

“ It’s about that business with Symonds — he .sends 
word it must be attended to to day, and you know 
what Symonds is— he won’t wait for nobody. I’d 
oughter go myself, but it’s no use, I can’t with all 
that seeding to be done and the men in the field 
a-ready. So you just put on your bunnit and I’ll 
drive you right over to the depot. Be quick ; I don’t 
want to lose no more time ’an I can help.” 

Mrs. Hall, considerably flustered, complied with 
her husband’s request, and in ten minutes was speed- 
ing on her way to the station, three miles distant, 
while Gertrude and Katie assumed, to the best of 
their ability, the tasks to be performed in her absence. 


- 139 — 


The day wore on, and the early twilight fell over 
the broad valley. The train from Bay City was not 
due until seven o’clock. Supper was served promptly 
by the girls, and then the farmer, sitting outside the 
door enjoying his pipe preparatory to the drive over 
to the station, in the mild December air peculiar to 
Southern California, overheard a conversation between 
his daughters as they busily set the kitchen to rights, 
taking care to reserve in a warm place for “ mother” 
the choicest portions of the meal. They evidently 
had no suspicion that he was within hearing, and 
their outspoken comments strangely disturbed the 
involuntary listener. 

“ I just wish father would do different,” said 
Katie, “ we should love him so much more, and I’m 
sure mother would be happier.” 

“Yes,” indeed,” replied Gertrude, “only last 
night I found her crying in the west room, with a 
lot of old letters in her lap. She tried to hide them 
under her apron, but I coaxed her to let me peep at 
them, and what do you think they were ? Old love- 
letters of father’s, and they must have been ever so 
sweet, for I caught sight of ‘ dears ’ and ‘ darlings ’ 
enough for anybody ! Would you believe from the 
way father treats mother now that he ever made love 
to her ? I know she was thinking of the difference, 
and that was what made her cry. I don’t think a 


— 140 — 


man has any business to promise a girl all sorts of 
things to make her happy, and then take no pains to 
keep his word, but just make a servant of her,” 
exclaimed Katie, impulsively. “ Did you ever in 
your life hear father call mother a pet name ? And 
see how thoughtless he is about her health ! If he 
won’t let us have a good time, I do wish he would be 
more kind to her.” 

Gertrude, whose temperament was more sedate, 
said : “ It is not nice of us to be talking so about our 

father, but I can’t help wondering sometimes how he 
would feel if mother should die.” 

A shock went over Reuben Hall’s sturdy frame. 
“If mother should die !” Visions, hitherto strangers 
to his thoughts, flitted through his brain. It was 
not impossible — “ mother ” might die — and what 
then ? In one great rush of awakened feeling, the 
man realized how empty life would be to him with- 
out the chosen companion of his early manhood and 
matured years. The anger which had arisen at the 
harsh criticism of his children faded away, and was 
replaced by a chaos of thoughts which were very dis- 
agreeable to entertain. Thus aroused, and condemn- 
ing himself for having allowed his wife to take such 
a sudden journey, he harnessed the bays and departed 
for the station to meet her. It was now quite dark, 
save for the twinkling stars which thickly studded 


the heavens, but the faithful horses knew the road 
well, and soon landed him at the depot, where a few 
loungers were awaiting the coming of the train. Ten, 
fifteen, twenty minutes passed, but no shrill whistle 
broke the stillness of the night. The station master 
began to look perplexed. 

“ Where’s yer train ? ” halloeed an idler. 

“You know as much about it as I do,” was the 
answer. “ It ought to have been here ten minutes 
ago.” Another wait, and then everybody began to 
get excited. 

“ Something’s happened sure as you live,” 
declared Nathen Bent, a neighbor of the Halls, to 
Reuben. 

“ Great God ! I’m afraid there has — and my wife 
is on the train.” The man shook like a leaf, and 
great drops of perspiration coursed down his face. 

“You don’t say !” and a circle gathered around 
Reuben. “ It looks mighty bad, and that’s a fact, but 
don’t give up heart yet, neighbor.” 

The click of the telegraph at last put an end to 
the dreadful suspense, but the tidings it brought were 
sad indeed : “ Collision between Mendon and Langley. 
Seven killed and twelve injured.” Not a word more ! 
nothing to cool the fever heat in every breast. 

Reuben Hall groaned jn anguish of spirit. It 
seemed impossible that his wife could be uninjured. 


42 — 


while the chances were great that she was among the 
killed. Few, if any, could have escaped unhurt, for 
there never were many passengers on this train^ — 
often less than the number reported as victims of the 
disaster. How could it have happened? Oh, if he 
had not sent her on the fateful journey ! If he had 
gone himself, as he ought, seeding or no seeding, she 
would now be safe at home by the fireside, while he 
— where would he be? The strong man trembled, 
and confessed to his accusing conscience that he was 
not as well prepared to go before the tribunal of 
Heavenly justice as his faithful wife. By a chance 
turn of Fortune’s wheel, he was spared this time, but 
his summons might come in an equally unsuspected 
manner. Would it find him in readiness ? 

“ They’ll telegraph back to Bay City, likely, for 
a relief train,” said someone, ‘ and then they’ll come 
on down this way. They’d orter be hei'e in a couple 
of hours.” Two hours ! What an eternity of misery 
can be condensed in that short space of time ! Two 
hours before Reuben Hall could know whether his 
wife, who never before seemed so dear, still existed. 
Who shall portray the emotions which were experi- 
enced by the unhappy man in that period of waiting 
for the knowledge which might be so crushing when 
it came ? 

Gertrude, Katie and Johnnie, sitting in the bright 


— H3 — 


kitchen, listening for the familiar rattle of the old 
market wagon, grew sleepy and finally alarmed at the 
non-appearance of their parents. Nine o’clock, ten 
struck, still the welcome sound came rot. The appe- 
tizing supper prepared for the tired mother dried in 
the oven, and the unheeded fire went out. A chill 
crept over the little room, and over the hearts of the 
frightened children. The hands crept slowly around 
to eleven ; once more the clock struck, still the 
silence was unbroken, save by sobs and hushed 
words. All at once Gertrude sprang up and cried, 
“ What are we sitting here doing nothing for, when 
father and mother may have been thrown out, and no 
one to help them ! I’m going over to Mr. Norton’s.” 
They were all too excited to reflect that, had such an 
accident occurred, the horses would probably have 
come straight home ; and Gertrude opened the door 
to carry out her purpose of arousing the neighbors 
when — could she believe her ears — far away she 
heard a faint rumble on the depot road. “ Listen, 
Katie; listen, Johnnie,” she cried, quivering with 
excitement, while brother and sister flew to the open 
door. The rumble grew louder. “ It is, it is, they 
are coming at last,” and they fairly danced for joy. 

Yes, coming at a pace to which the steady bays 
were seldom put — coming with a rattle and flourish 
up to the garden gate. 


~ 144 — 


Down sprang Reuben Hall with more activity 
than he had shown for years, then turned and care- 
fully lifted from the high seat a pale, exhausted little 
woman. What was the girls’ surprise to see their 
father carry her quite to the kitchen door, where he 
deposited his burden, and said in a low tone to which 
his children’s ears were not accustomed, “ Don’t 
bother your mother with no more questions, but get 
her right to bed, and fix her a cup of hot tea. She’s 
dead beat out.” Then, seeing the looks of wonder 
and the traces of tears, he continued: ‘‘There’s 
been a smash-up on the road, and it’s a wonder your 
mother wa’nt hurt. She’s been doing for them that 
was till she can’t hardly stand. I ’spose you got 
scared, didn’t ye ? ” 

It was a happy, thankful family that gathered 
around the breakfast table at an unusually late hour 
the next morning. Tittle Mrs. Hall looked like a 
new being, despite her fatigue, with such a pretty 
pink flush on her cheeks, and such a bright light in 
the eyes that looked almost with girlish shyness over 
to the face of her husband. The remembrance of 
the fervent embrace, like those of old which she had 
long missed, that he had given her on the arrival of 
the relief train at the station, was fresh in her mind ; 
also, the agitation he had shown, and the deference 
of his manner ever since. Her heart had not been 


so light for years, and surely no breakfast was ever 
so good as this ! A corresponding change had crept 
over Mr. Hall’s countenance. The children wondered 
that they had never thought their father fine-looking 
before, and rejoiced at the removal of the cloud which 
had rested over the household. 

It would be folly to assert that Reuben Hall 
never for a moment relapsed into the old ways — 
human nature is weak, and the force of habit strong 
— but he pulled himself up short when he realized his 
remissness and strove to make amends by redoubled 
kindness towards his family. 

Christmas came, and proved the merriest that the 
Halls had ever known. In the first place, there was 
a row of stockings, stuffed full and running over, 
hanging by the sitting room fire-place, and more good 
things came out of those receptacles than I can begin 
to enumerate. Then, about ten o’clock, who should 
drive up to the door, in a brand new, covered car- 
riage, but Mr Hall, and the bays, in shining, silver- 
mounted harness, held their heads high in seeming 
consciousness of their improved appearance. 

“ Thought we might as well have a decent turn- 
out,” said Reuben, ” seein’ the old market wagon ’s 
done duty so long.” And then he commanded them 
all to “git on their best fixin’s and ride over to aunt 
Sarah’s” to a turkey dinner that had been prepared 


— 146 — 


for their coming. And when they got home there 
was the best room so metamorphosed that Mrs. Hall 
stood in the middle of it and looked around her in 
bewilderment. Actually a bright new carpet and set 
of furniture, and - here the girls screamed with delight 
— a parlor organ, with a music book open upon it. 
Johnnie came in from the .stable, where he had spent 
so much time of late, bearing a nicely-stained set of 
book shelves for his mother, and a carved bracket for 
each of his sisters. “ How ever did you do it, John- 
nie?” asked Katie. 

” With my bracket saw that I bought out of the 
money I made with my chickens,” he answered, 
proudly. The chickens referred to were a brood 
belonging to a hen which Johnnie had raised since the 
day it came feebly out of its shell and been deserted 
by its stronger mates and hard-hearted mother. 

“ After this you shall all have chickens of your 
own, and do what you please with the money,” said 
the father. 

It grew dark, and then Mr. Hall made a new, and 
for him strange, proposition : “ Let’s all go over to 
the village to the festival,” he urged. “Come, we 
might as well make a complete thing of it, as long as 
we’re celebratin’. The neighbors are goin’, and 
there’ll be fun likely.” 

So off they went; sure enough there was “ fun,” 


— 147 — 


and when at last they settled themselves to sleep, it 
was with the firm belief that never before was there 
a happier day than Reuben Hall’s Christmas. 



MRS. BRIGHTON’S BURGLAR. 


T he clock struck three. As its silvery chimes 
ceased, a slight noise was heard in the handsome 
apartment where Mrs. Brighton lay sleeping. The 
light from the hall lamp shone dimly through the 
half open door upon the bed and the dressing case 
beside it, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. 

A stalwart figure stood before the mirror, swiftly 
but silently turning over the contents of a drawer. 
It was the opening of this drawer which had dis- 
turbed the stillness of the night so faintly. Mrs. 
Brighton opened her eyes just in time to see a dia- 
mond ring disappear in the burglar’s pocket. His 
hands closed upon a dainty purse. 

“ Who steals my purse steals trash!” The dark 
figure started. Whence came that clear and quiet 
voice ? He glanced apprehensively at the bed, and 
met the gaze of a brown-eyed woman who seemed as 
unmoved as if she were sitting in her parlor talking 
with an ordinary caller. The intruder stared dumbly. 
” Fact !” continued the calm voice. “I’ll prove 

(148) 


149 — 


it to you; open it!” And now the tone was com- 
manding. 

Mechanically the burglar obeyed. A solitary 
nickel dropped from the purse. 

“ Now, sir,” said the lady, in a firm though not 
unfriendly tone, “ aren’t you ashamed of yourself, 
breaking into a person’s house like this?” 

The man hesitated. “Tell the truth,” said Mrs. 
Brighton, imperiously. 

“ Yes, lady, I am,” he blurted out in an impul- 
sive, honest way. 

“Then take off that mask.” 

The man started. “ No !” he said. 

“Take it off!” insisted Mrs. Brighton. “I do 
like to have my own way. Oblige me, and you will 
not be sorry for it.” 

He pulled it off, and looked at her with embar- 
rassment and shame. She saw a gaunt face, young, 
blue-eyed, and yet hardened into the lineaments of a 
confirmed criminal. 

“Ah !” she murmured to herself, “I thought it 
quite likely.” Then, aloud, “ I wish you would tell 
me how you chanced to take up this hazardous and 
dishonest life.” 

“ I haven’t been in it long, ma’am,” he said, very 
low. “ I was driven to it. I had lost my job and 


150 — 


couldn’t get anything to do— and— and — one must 
have something to eat, ma’am.” 

“ True ! And so you thought you would help 
yourself to the property of other people. But haven’t 
you lost something in the process?” 

“ I hadn’t anything to lose, ma’am.” 

“ You had honesty ! a clear conscience ! appro- 
bation of the great Judge ! Was it worth while to 
part with them, even to assuage hunger?” 

“ I hadn’t thought of it that way, ma’am.” 

“ I realize how hard it has been for you,” said 
Mrs. Brighton, “ as much as anyone can realize it who 
has not experienced such privation. I know that you 
were desperate and tempted. Your face tells me that 
crime does not come to you naturally. Have you a 
mother?” 

The young man quivered. “ She is dead,” he 
replied. 

“ Perhaps her spirit is hovering over you at this 
moment. Would you like to have her see you com- 
mit a robbery?” 

“ My God, no !” 

“ Then, take my advice, and try once more to 
lead an honest life. Act as if your mother were con- 
scious of every thought and deed — she may be, for 
aught that any of us know. Pray for help and guid- 


auce. Don’t be ashamed to pray, young man. Will 
you try?” 

Tears rolled down the stranger’s face as he 
bowed his head — he could not speak. 

“ I will give you a little starter, and show you 
that I trust you. Take the cover off that bon-bon 
box — there — beside the cushion, at your right.” 
Several bright gold pieces lay within. “ Take one,” 
she said. 

“ I can’t take anything from you, ma’am,” and 
the young fellow dropped the diamond ring among 
the gold pieces. 

“Yes, you can, as a gift from me, when I wish it 
very much. I set aside a tenth for benevolent work, 
always, and I am sure that you need assistance as 
much as any one I know. Only make good use of 
it, and never, never break into anybody’s house 
again.” 

“ God bless you, ma’am,” he said, as he took out 
one only one - of the shining coins. “ I’ll never 
forget your kindness, and I’ll do the best I can.” 

“ Good-bye, then, and hurry, for I hear someone 
coming.” He swung himself out of the open win- 
dow, and clambered down the trellis, as Mrs. 
Brighton’s servant came along the hall with a light 
in her hand, and peered into her mistress’ room. 


— 152 — 


“I thought I heard somebody talking, ma’am,” 
vshe said. 

“Very likely it was I, Martha, babbling in my 
sleep. Too much supper, no doubt.” 

“ All right, ma’am,” replied Martha, somewhat 
ambiguously, and departed to her couch. 

“ Why wasn’t I afraid?” mused Mrs. Brighton, 
as the silence of night once more closed in around 
her. “ I always supposed I would be dreadfully 
scared if any one broke into the house, yet I never 
felt calmer in my life than when I discovered that I 
was not alone. It must have been some occult force 
that impressed me with the fact that there was no 
danger. Why, only last evening I was reading of a 
terrible murder committed by a robber in the house. 
It would not be wise to try philanthropy with that 
kind of a person. But this poor boy needs help. I 
believe he will come out all right.” 

With a sigh of pity for the vast hords of unfor- 
tunates to whom life is a bitter struggle in a world 
of plenty, Mrs. Brighton fell asleep. 

It was a perfect day, some years later, and Mrs. 
Brighton availed herself of it to pay a long-deferred 
call upon a friend living in the suburb of Mayville, 
to which the electric line which passed her house 
had lately been extended. The car stopped at her 
signal, and the conductor stood ready to assist her 


— 153 -^ 


on board. He gave her a scrutinizing glance, one 
that was almost keen in its intensity, as he helped 
her up the steps, and she observed that he was an 
honest-faced young man, with a cheery, healthy look 
and a pleasant voice. One by one the passengers left 
the car, until Mrs. Brighton was the only one remain- 
ing inside, for her friend lived a little beyond the 
terminus of the road, in a thinly settled region. 

Suddenly the conductor walked up to her. “May 
I speak to you, madam?” he queried. 

“ Certainly,” she replied, with some surprise. 

“You do not recollect ever having seen me 
before? ” 

She scanned him closely. “ No,” she said. 

“ I am the burglar who broke into your house 
four years ago.” 

“ Indeed,” ejaculated Mrs. Brighton. “I see the 
resemblance now you speak of it. The moustache 
changes you.” 

“ I am changed in many ways, thanks to your 
counsel and assistance, madam. I hoped I might 
tell you so, sometime. I took this route because it 
passed your house, and have always looked for you. 
The money that you gave me supported me until I 
found work. I got into good company, and finally I 
got married — yes, I have a wife and baby now.” 


— 154 — 


“ I am so glad,” was all that Mrs. Brighton could 
say, but her face shone with pleasure. 

“ I told my wife all about it, and she just reveres 
you, madam, as I do myself. I wish you could see 
her and the baby.” 

“ Bring them to my house, sometime,” said Mrs. 
Brighton, as the car stopped. 

“ Thank you, I will,” replied the conductor, help- 
ing her to the ground with the utmost care, and 
touching his hat as she turned away. 

“ Bread cast upon the waters does sometimes 
return,” thought Mrs. Brighton, with a light heart, 
as she hastened toward the home of her friend. 



THROUGH NIGHT TO TIGHT. 


A OTHER! Mother! Tet me see your face; 
i V 1 nay, do not grieve so ; I am not afraid to 
die, and God knows best ; there must be some good 
reason for this — something you will know, though it 
seems hard now. Dear mother. He will not leave you 
comfortless— He has promised it.” 

“ Oh! my child, how can I look calmly on and 
see you. pass out of my life, stricken down on the very 
threshold of manhood — my hope ! my joy ! my one 
incentive for existence ! What is there left for me 
when you are gone ? I can not face the future — it is 
all dark. I do not want to grope my way through 
the gloom. Oh, that I might die, too !” 

“ Tay your head down by mine, mother — so ; 
now kiss me. You always used to be so strong ; it is 
not like you to give way so utterly. If I, your little 
boy, whom you guided so carefully along the crooked 
ways of this world, do not fear to enter that unknown 
world above, should not you be brave? It will be 
but a little while ere we shall meet again. Think of 
that joyous union, where we shall live in perfect hap- 
(155) 


piness, our trials at an end ! Think of that, dear 
mother, and your burden will grow lighter. 

“ Henry, I will try to be strong; your faith and 
courage rebuke me. But if anything, everything 
else, had been taken, and my son had been left me. I 
can not see yet why I should be deprived of the 
solace of my declining years, or how I can live with- 
out you, my darling.” 

“ There will be a way provided, mother; I am 
sure of that. And I can go easier now that the ranch 
is paid for, and I know that you have a good home.” 

“ Ah, my son, how you have worked to provide 
your mother with this home ! And I felt so proud of 
my manly boy and so happy in the expectation of 
spending the remainder of my life in this quiet spot, 
with grandchildren clustering at my kees. Oh ! what 
is it, Henry?” 

“ Only a little twinge of pain — it’s over now ; and 
I was thinking of Annie— dear Annie. You’ll tell 
her now how devotedly I loved her, and that I was 
only waiting till the load of debt was @ff our shoul- 
ders before asking her to come and make us both 
happy. She would have been a good daughter to you, 
mother ; but it was not to be, and I will not rebel. I 
hope she’ll be happy and think of me sometimes when 
she has formed other ties. And, mother, there’s 
something else I want to speak about.” 


— 157 — 


“ What is it, my child ?” 

“ It is about you and father.” 

“ Do not rake up the past, Henry. He has 
chosen his path, and I have chosen mine. Long years 
ago they diverged so utterly that no trace of either 
to the other was visible. I do not want to think of 
your father now ; I want to think only of you, my 
poor, crushed, dying boy, in the few short hours that 
I may keep you with me.” 

“ But I can not die happily with you two unrec- 
onciled. O, mother, won’t you promise me some- 
thing? Won’t you send father a kindly message? 
Won’t you take the first step ? I believe it would 
all come right. He did wrong, but he was sorry 
afterward, and you would not forgive him. Do this 
for me, mother. Write to father.” 

“ Henry, it can not be. I do not know where he 
is, and if I did, I could not write to him. He for- 
feited all claim upon his wife when he let the gaming- 
table conquer his duty to his family, and sacrificed 
his home, his reputation — everything a true man 
should live for — in order to gratify a degrading pas- 
sion. He did beg me to take him back— so does every 
weak drunkard and gambler in the land, and their 
vows are not v/orth a moment’s consideration. When 
their fault is condoned, they take the first opportu- 


158- 


nity to repeat it, and so it goes on, to the lasting 
misery of everyone connected with them.” 

“ Do not speak so bitterly, mother; I like better 
to see your face when it is lighted up by the sweet 
smile that has always greeted me since I can remem- 
ber. True, the promises of the erring are often 
broken, for human nature is weak, and habits once 
formed link their fetters of steel with relentless 
power around their deluded victim ; but sometimes a 
man’s eyes are so clearly opened to see the error of 
his ways that no amount of persuasion can induce 
him to return to them again. I believe it was so with 
father; in fact, I have convincing proof of it.” 

“You are too sanguine, Henry. What has 
become of your father I know not ; but I presume he 
has sunk lower and lower down the scale of degrada- 
tion, if he still lives. What do you mean by ‘ con- 
vincing proof?’ ” 

“ Mother, I know where father is — I found out 
yesterday in town. And he’s a steady, industrious 
man — I’m sure of it. Where’s my coat— the breast 
pocket — you’ll find a clipping ; read it.” 

“ Mr. James H. Mellen, our popular postmaster, 
reports that the business of his office during the 
quarter ending September 30th exceeds that of any 
other quarter since he has been in charge. It will be 
remembered that Mr. Mellen was appointed to the 


— 159 “ 


postmastership nearly eight years ago, not long after 
his arrival in Daturah from Sonoma, Cal.” 

“ I saw that in an Iowa paper, mother; and yon 
know that father went to Sonoma. This must be 
father, and you see he is popular and occupies a good 
position. Now will you write to him, mother? ” 

” Can it be possible? It seems likely, and yet I 
fear there is some mistake. Would that he were 
again a useful and respected member of society. But, 
even then, my son, I could not write to him after all 
these years. He would not care to hear from me.” 

“ Try him, mother.” 

“ Perhaps he has — another — family.” 

“ I do not believe it, mother.” 

“ Divorces are easy to get now-a-days, and he 
could say I deserted him.” 

“I don’t think he did, mother; write and see. 
Tell him where you are; tell him your boy is .” 

“ Oh, Henry, Henry, don’t, don’t say it ! I’ll do as 
you wish, darling, if it will make your mind easier. 
I’ll forgive and forget, and he shall answer me or not. 
as he pleases. If .some other woman is making him 
happy, I will not repine. My son’s last moments 
shall not be worried by obstinacy of mine.” 

“ That’s my own dear mother ! And — one thing 
more — you love him a little yet, do you not?” 

“ Henry, if he be true and worthy, never would 


i6o — 


wife be more tender than I if our paths, so long 
estranged, should unite again.” 

“ Then write — write, now — don’t wait !” 

Without another word the mother left her son’s 
bedside to comply with his request. Henry Mellen, 
but twenty-four hours ago in the vigorous health of 
early manhood, lay helpless upon the couch from 
which he would never rise. Delayed longer than 
usual in the neighboring town of Kellyville, whither 
he had gone with a load of wood to sell, he had 
thought to gain time by returning on a different road 
— a shorter cut, but having a steep, winding grade, in 
places so narrow, where it had been cut from the hill- 
side, that it was impossible for teams to pass each 
other, and a slight swerving from the road would 
inevitably precipitate anyone from fifty to one hun- 
dred feet down the bank. Henry had been over this 
road countless times, and, like all Californians accus- 
tomed to rough travel, had never apprehended dan- 
ger; but darkness came on before he reached the 
grade, coupled with a thick fog, so that he found it 
difficult to distinguish the pathway before him. 
Regretting that he had not taken the longer circuit, 
as the fog settled around him, he reflected that the 
chances were nine to ten that he would meet no one 
coming up the grade at that hour, the horses knew 
the road well, and would take him safely to the valley 


i6i — 


below. All went well until the last curve but one 
was rounded, when the horses stumbled over an 
obstruction, the wagon tipped abruptly to one side, 
there was a scramble, a frantic effort to keep the 
track, and then the wagon, horses, and, alas, poor 
Henry Mellen, went crashing down the hillside. 

There they were found some hours later, when 
the mother, alarmed at the prolonged absence of her 
son, had aroused the neighbors and a search had been 
instituted. Mrs. Mellen’s first thought had been of 
the grade, as Henry had on several other occasions 
laughed at her fears and taken the shorter road, and 
thither the steps of the men were directed. 

They soon discovered that a landslide had taken 
place, partially blocking the road, and their worst 
anticipations were realized by the evidences of the 
accident that had taken place. 

One horse was killed and the other so badly hurt 
that he was speedily put out of his misery. Henry 
was found to have received fatal spinal injuries. He 
suffered little, but his hours were numbered. It was 
after the doctor had candidly stated the facts of the 
case that the foregoing conversation between mother 
and son took place. 

The letter was written. Mrs. Mellen enclosed 
the newspaper clipping, and said that if the post- 
master referred to was her husband of years ago, she 


— i 62 — 


congratulated him on his honorable career, which had 
gained him the esteem of his townspeople, and sin- 
cerely regretted the harsh words which would have 
driven a weaker man to moral destruction. Their boy 
was dying, and by his bedside she implored his for- 
giveness for all her shortcomings as she freely for- 
gave the wrongdoing which had been the cause of 
their separation. 

Henry listened to the letter, a smile of content 
creeping over his white face, and his last words were 
full of confidence that happiness was yet in store for 
his estranged parents. 

It was early in December when he died. One 
perfect day followed another with a prodigality un- 
known in the East. The occasional gentle showers 
revivified the earth until it put on a garb of freshest 
verdure. Dainty blossoms of every hue sprang up on 
the broad plains, all over the hills, in every nook and 
corner. The birds caroled their sweetest lays like 
those of spring time— for was not this the California 
spring ? 

Christmas day dawned — the beautiful Christmas 
so unlike that of which the poets sing ; and in the 
home of Henry Mellen’s mother there was much sad- 
ness and little rejoicing. The weary shoulders were 
not quite fitted to the burden yet, but they were mak- 
ing a brave eftort to shape themselves, and every day 


— i63 — 

the sad lips murmured : ‘‘ Thy will, not mine, be 

done.” 

Who is this walking so swiftly up the path and 
knocking so imperatively upon the door ? A tall fig- 
ure, a bearded face, the hair thickly streaked with 
gray, that sends a strange thrill over the breathless 
watcher. She can scarcely throw open the door ; but 
she is in no danger of falling, for strong arms support 
her, warm kisses are pressed upon lips and brow, a 
fond voice whispers, “ My wife! My precious wife 
at last 1” 

“ Peace on earth ! good will to men I ” Did 
angels ever bequeath to mortals a sweeter motto ? Not 
alone for remembrance on the blessed anniversary 
of our Saviour’s birth, but for constant use amid the 
trials and perplexities of every-day life. 

“ I tried to find you,” said Mr. Mellen, “ after I 
was certain that the old temptation had no power over 
me ; but you had vanished, leaving no trace of your 
whereabouts. Then I went East, feeling that I had 
but one thing to live for, and that was to retrieve my 
lost reputation. I have succeeded, and by the mem- 
ory of that dear son who so nobly strove to fill the 
place I left vacant, I solemnly vow that nothing shall 
henceforth be left undone that will in any degree 
atone for the suftering I have caused you. Be com- 
forted, dear wife, you are not left alone.” 


— 164 — 


“ O blessed day, which gives the eternal lie 
To self and sense, and all the brute within ! 

Oh ! come to us amid this war of life ; 

To hall and hovel, come ; to all who toil 
In senate, shop or study, and to those 
Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world. 
Ill-warmed and sorely tempted, ever face 
Nature’s brute powers, and men unmanned to brutes. 
Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas day. 
Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem, 

The kneeling shepherds and the Babe divine. 

And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day.” 



t 


THAT UGLY MAN. 


^^LJOW came such a beautiful woman to marry 
A A that ugly man,” exclaimed a stranger in the 
city, as the wedding party came from the church. 

“ Because she knows what real beauty is,” said a 
gentle faced old lady as she passed. 

I knew the story. I knew Salome Harden when 
she married at i8 a man who had more than his share 
of personal graces, and I knew what a life she led for 
the next fifteen years —not necessarily because she 
had married a handsome man, but because in his case 
beauty was only “ skin deep.” She had an inkling of 
the fact once when, for a trifling fault, he unmerci- 
fully lashed the horse that he was driving. It jaired 
upon her seriously, but could she break an engage- 
ment for a little thing like that ? She had yet to learn 
that a cruel, unreasonable temper can destroy the 
happiness of a home. She also discovered that her 
handsome husband was too much engrossed with 
himself to take any interest in her pursuits. On her 
experience I will not dwell. The martyrdom of a 
(165) 


66 


neglected, ill-treated wife is far more common than 
the world realizes. 

After Salome became a widow, she had no lack 
of admirers. A few had some attraction for her at 
first, then a chance act or word would dispel her illu- 
sion. Warned by the past, she took heed when Mr. 
Prince sneered at a ragged old woman, and Mr. Means 
kicked an injured dog which had crawled to his feet, 
and Mr. Sterne could not see the sense of fussing over 
flowers or reading poetry, and Mr. Pomposity thought 
that women were getting so that they knew too much, 
and Mr. Gayfair occassionally took too much wine. 

One Sunday morning, as she took her seat in 
church, she caught sight of the ugliest little man, pos- 
itively the very ugliest, she thought, that she had ever 
set eyes on. He was short, and red faced and bald- 
headed, and had a turned-up nose, and a big mouth 
and scraggly red whiskers. He sat in the seat directly 
behind her, and her first feeling was one of thankful- 
ness that he did not sit in front of her. By and bye 
she noticed that he joined in the hymns with a hearty 
bass voice, and he actually said the Ivord’s prayer right 
out loud at the proper time in the service. Salome 
had not been accustomed to hearing a man pray. She 
respected the ugly creature from that time forth. 

Sunday after Sunday passed ; she was a constant 
church-goer and so was he. Then he was introduced 


— 167 — 


to her at “ a social,” and real acquaintance began. 
She found that he was even more of a reader than her- 
self, that his sympathies were quick, his perceptions 
delicate. She liked the manly ring in his voice and 
the strong grasp of his hand. His almost diffident 
courtesy was a change from the self-assured attentions 
of the other gentlemen. She was sure that he knew 
how ugly he was and that his unattractive appear- 
ance deprived him of much of life’s pleasure. He 
must be forty, yet had never been married. 

“ Young girls are so foolish,” she thought, recall- 
ing how she, as well as others, had reserved all her 
smiles for the best-looking 3^oung men, and more 
than once had snubbed some freckle- faced youth 
without regard for his good qualities. 

It was rather a lively winter among the church 
people, and Salome often met Mr. Hartwell. He 
seemed to take great pleasure in her society, but 
always maintained a certain reserve. Salome dis- 
cerned that the nature of this plain little man was 
not one to be fathomed readily. 

One evening he escorted her home from a meet- 
ing of the literary club. Almost at her doorstep she 
slipped on a banana peel, turned her ankle, and for 
an instant lost consciousness with the pain. What 
woman could faint long within a pair ot embracing 
arms, with a warm kiss clinging to her lips ? Not 


Salome Harden at any rate. Her astonishment 
brought her to her senses, and in another moment 
she was standing very straight and Mr. Hartwell was 
stammering an apology. 

“You were falling — I caught you— and— and I 
lost my self-control. Can you forgive me?” With- 
out waiting for an answer, he went on as if the flood- 
gates were opened. He told her how hopelessly he 
had loved her, how well he knew that no woman 
could ever marry him ; that he never meant to show 
his affection, but was grateful for her friendship. 

Something shone in his face that was better than 
beauty of features. Salome wondered how she could 
ever have looked with pity upon this man. 

“ Will you come in a minute? ” she asked. 

Uncertain of her mood, he followed her up the 
steps. 

She turned as they passed through the parlor 
door. 

“You said that no woman could ever marry you, 
Mr. Hartwell You must take that back, for — I can. 
I want to be happy,” and she laid her arms about his 
neck. 

That kiss had made things clear. Somehow it 
was not quite like any other kiss she had ever 
received, and Salome felt that it was what she had 
been wanting all her life. She forgot all about her 


— 169 — 


aching ankle. Mr. Hartwell’s emotions need not be 
described, but I will say this : If there is a blissful 
wedded couple in the universe, “ that ugly man ” and 
his beautiful Salome are the identical pair. 



THE AWAKENING. 


R ETTA RICHARDSON turned from the one 
window of her little sitting room with a sigh. 
It was not an entrancing or even interesting scene 
that she had viewed as she stood between the simple 
muslin curtains that were caught back on each side 
by an artistically knotted band of broad blue ribbon. 

A dusty, cobbly street, lined with small, low, 
unpainted frame houses, guiltless of the slightest 
attempt toward ornament — structures appearing but 
half finished to one accustomed to eastern architec- 
ture. Beyond the street, more dirt, more cobble 
stones, more Eiliputian houses, then along, wide 
stretch of barren mesa, extending far out to the hori- 
zon line, and broken by a rugged mountain range 
that rose precipitously from the surface of the plain, 
some ten miles away. Ten miles, although it did not 
look half the distance, in the clear, rarefied atmos- 
phere of southern Arizona ; and many more miles the 
eye scanned in vain for a glimpse of beauty, — for one 
tree to relieve the monotony, for a tiny rivulet or a 
sparkling lake. Bare, dust-colored mesa, distant 

(170) 


mountains, and deep blue sky over all these, formed 
the panorama. 

But this unprepossessing exterior was not the 
cause of Retta’s sigh, although she had been thinking 
of the dear old home in New England, — of the ver- 
dant country town where she was born and bred, and 
of the roomy, comfortable dwelling of her youthful 
days, all so great a contrast to her present surround- 
ings. 

The little room in which she stood, though 
cheaply furnished, was a cosy apartment, with its 
tasteful arrangement and pretty devices. The sigh 
issued again from her lips as she looked toward a 
lounge at one side, whereon the greatest ornament of 
all reclined, — a handsome man, — her husband,— her 
own. Tall and athletic in figure, nobly modeled in 
feature, his wavy brown locks carelessly lying upon 
the neatly embroidered pillow, his large dark eyes 
closed in slumber. A picture to fill a fond wife’s 
heart with joyous pride, yet tears gathered in Retta’s 
eyes as she gazed, and she bit her lips in an attempt 
to control her emotion. 

A loud, stentorous breathing came from under 
the heavy moustache, unlike the respiration of nat- 
ural slumber. Retta’s cherished husband was drunk, 
and not for the first time. 

She could bear separation from the loved rela- 


172 — 


tions, banishment from congenial scenes, and the 
privations and annoyances of frontier life; but this 
crowning grievance was almost more than she could 
endure. 

She had, at first, hopefully imagined that she 
could influence Myron to overcome the temptation ; 
but she had tried every means in her power and they 
had proved of no avail. He had started out in busi- 
ness in a small way, hoping to prosper with the 
growth of the bustling little town, and for a time had 
done well. But he had succumbed to the degenerat- 
ing influences that are so plentiful in newly settled 
communities, far from the haunts of a higher state 
of civilization, and now both he and the business 
seemed fairly on the road to ruin. No wonder that 
Retta’s tender, lonely heart contracted with anguish, 
and her courage well-nigh failed her. 

The next morning, when Myron had recovered 
from the dissipation of the previous day, a day set 
aside by the rougher elements of the population for 
excessive indulgence, — the holy Sabbath — Retta tried 
once more to reason with him. Not argumentatively, 
not harshly; but gently, lovingly, fervently. Once 
Myron had been plunged into depths of shame and 
remorse at the consciousness that he had allowed 
liquor to master him, — had sworn it should never 
happen again, that she need not worry, everything 


— 173 — 


would be all right in the future, as men are sure to 
swear who falsely gauge their own strength and the 
enthralling power of drink. All that was past now, 
as it inevitably becomes in the case of a pampered 
appetite Myron was moody and irritable now, after 
a debauch, and impatient of any interference from 
his wife. 

He swallowed his strong coffee this morning with 
a clouded brow, scarcely vouching a word to Retta, 
who sat opposite him, the same pretty, blue-eyed lit- 
tle woman who had once captivated his heart, and 
who had been cherished as the apple of his eye before 
the demon drink became her rival. 

“ You’ll be home to dinner at five, won’t you, 
Myron?” pleaded Retta, knowing it was useless to 
ask him to come to lunch, for it had been some months 
now since he had asserted that the pressure of his 
business required him to take lunch at a restaurant 
near the store. 

I suppose so,” Myron replied, rather ungraci- 
ously. 

“ And need you go back, dear? ” 

Retta was leaning over her husband’s chair now, 
her arms about his neck. 

” Stay at home with me tonight, and let us read 
and talk together as we used.” 

Bosh ! ” exclaimed Myron. “ That would be 


— 174 


dull work. How often must I tell you, Retta, that a 
man can’t spend all his days courting ? That time is 
past and gone for us, and it is very unreasonable of 
you to be so exacting. I’ve something else to do 
beside moping around in the house.” 

How different his tones were from the seductive 
eloquence of that voice not so many years ago ! And 
this plea of urgent business, which had so often been 
advanced as an excuse for remaining away until the 
evening was far spent, if not entirely gone. Retta had 
worried, at first, about such overwork, but had finally 
made the discovery that these evenings were mostly 
spent in some one of the numerous attractively fur- 
nished gambling saloons. 

” Oh, now, dear, don’t talk that way. It pains 
me to hear you say that your wife is dull company. 
You used not to think so.” 

“ Hang it all, there you go again ! ‘You used not ’ 
this, and ‘ you used not ’ that ! Do you suppose the 
world, and everything on it, is going to hang station- 
ary ? I ‘ used not ’ to be tied to a woman’s apron 
string, and I don’t propose to be now.” 

Oh, favorite expression of a tyrannical man ! 
How many times a loving wife’s heart has been wrung 
by it. 

Myron rose from the table, clapped his hat upon 
his head, and strode into the street without a back- 


— 175 — 

ward glance or a word of farewell. It was not much 
past five when he returned, and he was sober. 

But he was off" again in an hour, despite his wife’s 
persuasions, and she saw no more of him until nearly 
midnight, when he was not so sober, 

It was extremely hot weather, — one scorching, 
cloudless day followed another, with the mercury over 
lOO deg. in the shade,— and Retta, never very strong, 
was much reduced by the excessive heat, combined 
with her ever-present anxiety. Day by day, she grew 
whiter and thinner, until even Myron observed her 
wan appearance, and betrayed some feeling in regard 
to it. 

“ You ought to have a change, Retta,” he declar- 
ed. “This infernally hot weather is too much for 
you, — it is rather rough on me sometimes, — and you 
ought to go into the mountains. There are parties 
going every little while, and you ’d better join one of 
them.” 

The doctor said so, too, and added that she must 
go somewhere, or she would be down entirely. His 
positive tones admitted of no increduality, and Retta, 
who shrank from the thought of an illness in that in- 
auspicious climate, and felt that, for Myron’s sake, 
she must keep up, at last consented to take a trip to 
the Chiricahuas. She would have gone readily and 
with pleasure if Myron could have accompanied her ; 


— 176 — 


but she felt very uneasy about leaving him perfectly 
free to follow the bent of his inclinations, and was 
sorely afraid that he would take advantage of her ab- 
sence in a way that would be detrimental to him. 

“ Promise me that you will be good,” she entreat- 
ed, as she took leave of him. Do not forget that 
you are a gentleman, and that your business prospects 
and our future happiness depend upon your conduct. 
Oh, be good and true, darling.” 

Her voice broke into a sob, as she clung to him. 

“ Nonsense ! ” and he kissed her lightly. “What 
a pucker about nothing ! One would think I was in 
danger of an arrant disgrace, and that you were about 
to take your departure for Borrioboola Gha, or some 
other place at the antipodes, instead of for a canon in 
the Chiricahuas, but sixty miles away. Don’t fret 
about me, Retta, but devote yourself to getting well, 
among the trees and flowers and singing birds. There 
comes the carriage. I shall expect to see you as 
dusky as a senorita in a month from now. Enjoy 
younself all you can. Good-by.” 

He parted from her more like his old self than 
usual, but Retta’s heart was heavy as she rode away 
in the bright sunlight. 

Myron went back to the store rejoicing that he 
was free from surveillance for a whole month. He 
didn’t intend to do anything very much out of the 


— 177 — 


way, but Retta was too straight-faced. If she had her 
way she wouldn’t allow a man any liberties at all. 
Things were different in mining-camps from what 
they were in puritanical New England. A man could 
enjoy a game of faro without anything being thought 
of it, and it would be quite out of the ordinary course 
to refuse a glass of liquor. So Myron Richardson 
followed the advice he had given his wife, and “enjoyed 
himself.” If he lost heavily at his favorite game, there 
was no one to reproach him, and if he sometimes took 
“ a glass too much,” there were no sorrowful eyes to 
see it. Some few friends, who were proof against the 
temptations of border life, remarked that it was a pity 
that such a fine man as Myron Richardson should be 
going down hill, and it was hard lines for that lady- 
like little wife of his. But Myron felt no twinges of 
conscience. He grew better satisfied with himself all 
the time. And now it was about time for his wife to 
return. In fact, she was liable to arrive in the camp 
any day. He had no means of hearing directly from 
her, but he knew that the party whom she had accom- 
panied proposed to return about this time. 

One quiet Sunday morning, — come to think of 
it, it was not so very quiet, either, for Sunday is not 
observed as punctiliously in mining eamps^as it is in 
the East, and the stamp mills were pounding away 
as usual on the daily supply of ore, — but one peace- 


-178- 


ful Sunday morning, the residents of Bonanza were 
suddenly thrown into a state of the wildest com- 
motion. Rumors of an Apache outbreak at the San- 
Carlos reservation had been afloat for a day or two, 
but had not been generally credited, similar sensa- 
tional reports having proved utterly without founda- 
tion several times heretofore. But when two excited, 
roughly-dressed men galloped into town, on horses 
that were literally covered with foam, and spread the 
tidings that a party of four woodchoppers in the 
Dragon Mountains had been found murdered by a 
band of fleeing Indians, en route to Sonoro, who had 
stolen large numbers of horses, mules and cattle, and 
had marked their trail from the reservation with the 
blood of at least forty white men, women and chil- 
dren at various points, the outbreak was recognized 
as a terrible fact. The bearers of the dread intelli- 
gence had feared for their lives in crossing the mesa 
between the Dragons and Bonanza, but had luckily 
caught onlj'^ a distant view of the motley band of 
savages. The Indians were apparently making for 
the lower end of the Chiricahuas, and woe betide any 
white people who might be crossing the Sulphur- 
Spring Valley, between that range and the Dragons, 
unconscious of the proximity of the red foe. 

At once the town was aroused. The whistles of 
the steam hoisting works sounded a shrill alarm, fast 


79 — 


and furious, which thronged the streets with excited, 
curious people. Stern-faced men hastily saddled their 
horses, buckled on their cartridge belts and a brace 
of revolvers, and, taking their rifles before them, 
galloped up and down the streets, recruiting a force 
to go in pursuit of the renegades, and to notify the 
surrounding settlers of their danger. No doubt 
the soldiers were not very far distant, but 
perhaps a volunteer company from Bonanza 
could cut off the retreat of the Indians into Mexican 
territory. The bodies of their victims must be brought 
into town also, and decently buried. All was bustle 
and prompt action. Within an hour after the news 
was received, fifty mounted men rode out in the direc- 
tion indicated as taken by the savages, and twenty 
more took a circuit among the ranches, and other 
exposed places, to warn the people of the danger of 
their situation. 

Myron Richardson’s first thought was of Retta. 
She was liable to be on the road from the Chiricahuas, 
and directly in the path of the hostiles. Good God ! 
she might be killed, or worse yet, be taken into a ter- 
rible captivity ! And he could do nothing to avert 
the danger. Even now, the horrible deed might be 
committed ! How was he to endure such suspense ? 
Why had he allowed her to go into such a lonely 
country without him ? A country, too, supporting in 


— i8o — 


its midst that constant menace of an Apache reserva- 
tion. Now that Retta’s life was in jeopardy, it seemed 
very precious to the husband who had manifested so 
much indifference for months past. He was almost 
unmanned at the thought that she might be snatched 
from him, in this cruelest of ways. Something very 
like a prayer rose from his heart to heaven, as he 
wandered aimlessly through the streets, now more 
than usually lively, heeding no familiar faces, intent 
only on the all-absorbing question that none could 
answer — was Retta safe ? He had not long to wait 
for news of her. 

Ere the sun had commenced its downward jour- 
ney toward the west, another flying horseman reached 
the camp, and the tidings he brought were of a nature 
to fill strong men’s eyes with tears, and their hearts 
with horror unutterable. 

Some men had arrived at Jones’ ranch just before 
his departure, so the messenger said, who reported 
that a train of freight wagons had been “ taken in ” 
by the Indians, in the Sulphur-Spring Valley, the 
drivers (Mexicans) killed, and the mules stolen. A 
party of Bonanza people, who had been camping in 
the Chiricahaus and were on their way home, had also 
been attacked. Not one had escaped. All lay cold 
in death, brutally hacked and mutilated by the blood- 
thirsty Apaches. The description of the bodies found 


— i8i ~ 


tallied exactly with that of the Whitcomb party, of 
which Mrs. Richardson was a member. 

This fresh and trebly sickening horror spread 
like wildfire through the streets, and was not long 
in reaching Myron Richardson. Although he 
had thought of nothing else since he had heard 
that the Apaches were in the vicinity, he was 
completely staggered by the awful confirmation of 
his fears. A great wave of misery rolled over 
him with the knowledge, for there could be little 
doubt of it, that poor Retta lay lifeless and disfigured, 
exposed to the burning rays of the sun, in Sulphur- 
Spring Valley. Mechanically, with set lips and star- 
ing eyes, he sought his home, oblivious of the excla- 
mations of pity from his acquaintances that followed 
the sight of his agonized countenance. He entered 
the humble home which Retta had made so attractive, 
turned the key in the door, and threw himself down 
by the table, dropping his head upon his arms, to 
think it out. Retta was no more ! never again would 
he behold the sweet face that had smiled for him since 
that blessed day six years ago when his eyes had first 
rested upon it. Never again would he hear her gen- 
tle voice assuring him of her tender love, or — O 
wretched thought! — entreating him to give up his 
unsteady habits, and be to her the loving, considerate 
husband of yore. And now a great storm of remorse- 


— i 82 — 


ful anguish shook Myron’s frame from head to foot. 
Was it not hard enough to lose his precious wife, in 
this diabolical manner, without suffering the woe of 
unavailing regret for the past, brought about entirely 
by his own selfishness and disregard of principles ? 

The unhappy man groaned in agony of spirit, and 
lay motionless, fighting with his grief, while the day 
wore on, and night drew near. All the torturing 
thoughts that filled his brain, only he and his Maker 
knew. 

We can imagine them to some extent, but only 
those who have passed through such an ordeal can 
fully realize the pain of a conscience-stricken 
mourner. 

Hours had passed when Myron started up from 
his chair, invincible determination written upon 
every lineament, and, raising his hand on high, he 
exclaimed, — 

“ I will throw off the shackles. As God hears 
me, I will be a different man. I cannot bring my 
darling back, I cannot live my life over and fulfill 
the vows I made her at the alter, — O God would that 
I could, — but I can do what she would wish me to 
do if she could speak to me. I will never touch 
liquor or dice again, no, never, never, never!” 

Myron trembled with agitation, cold beads of 
perspiration stood upon his brow, and tears filled his 


83 - 


eyes, as he continued, “ I see it all now,— my dam- 
nable conduct. With the dearest, truest wife in the 
world, I have been blind to her happiness and my 
own interests. I have caused her untold suffering, 
— I know it, — and God is just in taking away from 
me a blessing that I did not appreciate. Oh, idiot 
that I have been !” 

Pacing nervously to and fro, Myron thought of 
the lonely, loveless life before him. He was firm in 
his resolve to break loose from all degrading associa- 
tions, but it occurred to him that, if he registered 
his solemn vow on paper, it would be an ever-present 
reminder of the pledge. 

“ I will put it down in black and white,” he said, 
” and it shall never leave my body.” 

So he drew out a little drawer in the table, where- 
in his wife had kept her writing materials, and rum- 
maged among its contents for a suitable paper. The 
sight of letters inscribed with her dear name, and a 
glimpse now and then of her familiar handwriting, 
almost overpowered him. He caught sight of the 
wished-for paper, and drew it out from beneath a pile 
of envelopes. Another sheet came with it, — a jagged, 
torn leaf, apparently from an account book or diary, 
— and it was covered with Retta’s dainty chirography. 
Instinctively he began to read. Soon he flushed and 
choked, and, when he had finished, the leaf fell from 


— 184 — 


his nerveless hand, his head dropped, and he groaned. 
“ Oh, wretched man that I am ! May God forgive me 
for my cruelty to that sainted woman.” 

This is what he read : 

” I must tell my grief to some one or something. 
This continual repression is killing me. So let me 
pour my trouble out on the bosom of my diary, since 
I can confide it to no human breast. How can I look 
calmly on and see my darling husband going to ruin ? 
How can I bear his indifference, his hard words, his 
utter disregard of my counsel ? O Myron, Myron, if 
you but knew that a wife’s affection is beyond all price! 
If you but realized your precarious condition, and the 
duty you owe to yourself, to me, and to your God ! 
Night and day I pray for thee, and night and day my 
heart aches, oh, so bitterly. I am alone, alone in this 
desolate country, for the staff on which I leaned has 
failed me. My father in heaven, help me to endure.” 

It was like a message from the dead to Myron, 
and it filled his heart with anguish. The room grew 
dusk, but he did not move. A man could not live in 
such misery, he dully thought. 

He did not hear some one try the door, which 
was still locked, nor did he notice the light steps that 
passed around the side of the house to the kitchen en- 
trance. 

“Myron,” a soft voice spoke, “Myron, are you 
here ? ” 

The man started as if struck by an electric shock. 


-185 


and looked up. Standing just within the room, and 
bending forward to peer into the gathering darkness, 
was a figure strangely like Retta’s. Was she come 
back to reproach him for his cruelty ? 

“ Surely that is you over there in the chair,” the 
voice continued, and the figure came nearer, “ but it 
is so dark that I can’t half see.” 

Those matter-of fact tones, that tangible shape — 
they could not belong to a denizen of the spirit world. 
Could it be Retta herself? Retta, alive and un- 
harmed? Just as Myron asked himself this question, 
while he still stared vacantly at the advancing figure, 
a hand was laid upon his shoulder — a warm, flesh and 
blood hand — and Myron, fllled with a sudden estatic 
happiness, caught his wife to his breast, as she ex- 
claimed : 

“ You dear boy ! Why don’t you speak to me?” 

For a few moments he could not command 
his voice. He could only hold Retta in a close em- 
brace, and shower kisses upon her brow and cheek 
and lips, while his frame shook with emotion. 

And she, touched and surprised by his unwonted 
demonstrativeness, freely returned his endearments. 

“ Then you were not killed by the Indians? ” at 
last he ejaculated. 

“ Killed by the Indians? No, indeed. Did you 
think so ? Oh, my dear boy ! ” 


— i86 — 


“ Was not the Whitcomb party attacked? ” 

“ Mercy, I hope not; but I don’t know, for I did 
not come with them.” 

“ Not come with them ? ” and Myron gazed in as- 
tonishment. 

“No. I was intending to, up to the first minute, 
but we met your friend, George Norcross, and his 
wife and sister, who had been out to Tres Alamos, 
and affected a change. You see he was obiiged to go 
to the Turquoise district, on business, on the way 
back to Bonanza, andyou know I have often ex- 
pressed a wish to see that camp, so, as his wife had 
been there several times, and was a great crony of 
Mrs. Whitcomb’s, she said she had much rather take 
my place with them, and I got into the buggy with 
him and Louise.” 

“And didn’t you see any Indians ?” 

“ Not one, and we didn’t know there was an out- 
break until we got to Turquoise. A messenger had 
just informed the miners of it. We thought we had 
better get back to Bonanza as quickly as we could, 
and we kept our eyes open on the way, I can tell you. 
But, as you see, we arrived here in safety. George 
drove right to the house and set me down.” 

She evidently had heard nothing of the massacre, 
so Myron broke the intelligence to her, adding that 


-i87- 

it was just possible it might be some other party, but 
not probable. 

Nor was it. The next day the mutilated bodies 
of the Whitcombs and their friends were brought 
into Bonanza, and the hearts of the populace were 
filled with commiseration and indignation at the sad 
spectacle, — the devilish work of the craftiest and 
cruelist of savages How long, — was the appeal 
of every heart, — how long must we endure 
this murderous race in our midst? How long 
will they be gathered together, in the heart of 
our territory, clothed and nurtured, provided with 
arms and ammunition, and let loose upon the unsus- 
pecting people, — only to be taken back and forgiven, 
until the bloody tragedy is enacted over again ? 

The casual change described by Retta saved her 
life, and made Captain Norcross an unhappy widower. 
Retta had the supreme pleasure of seeing her husband 
boldly write down his unalterable determination to 
abstain henceforth from intoxicating drinks and the 
gaming table. Myron never forgot that terrible day 
when he awoke to the consciousness of his peril, — the 
day when he believed that all that really made life 
worth living had been taken from him. It was not 
an easy task that he had set himself. But thoughts of 
the dear ones at home, and of the gift of God that 
was coming to him, kept him steadfast. 


— i88 — 


When their little son was born, Retta felt no 
shame for its father, and its innocent young life 
proved an eflfectual safeguard to the man who found 
sobriety more pleasurable, and dissipation more repul- 
sive, as time passed on. 

The renegades were not captured, either by the 
soldiers or the volunteers. They made good their 
escape across the border, where they ensconced them- 
selves in strongholds among the mountains, indulg- 
ing occasionally in the diversion of a raid upon the 
scattered settlers of Sonora. 












4 


» 


. • 




r. 


V 


/ 




I 






k 


\ 


V 

\ 


\ 



I. 


































